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TIMELY    RKI.IKF. 


Page  :r> 


(. 


THE 


POOR   WOODCUTTER, 


AND 


OTHER   STORIES. 


BY    T.    S.   ARTHUR. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  ORIGTNAL  DESTO-XS  BY  CROOME 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1873. 


I 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 
J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT   &    CO., 

In  the  Office  of  the£,ibrarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


L  i  PPI  SCOTT'S    PRESS, 
PHILADELPHIA. 


CONTENTS. 


PACl 

THE   POOR  WOODCUTTER 9 

AN  EVENING  AT  HOME 41 

THE  TEMPERANCE  MEETING  IN  STEVE  MILLER'S 
BAR-ROOM 57 

I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT 70 

A  GOOD  INVESTMENT 92 

BEAUTY 118 

THE  KNIGHT,  THE  HERMIT,  AND  THE  MAN 131 

THE  MERCHANT'S  DREAM...,  ..  143 


M118134 


INTRODUCTION. 


WHILE  several  volumes  in  this  series  of  books 
for  the  young  are  addressed  to  children  as  child 
ren,  others,  like  this  one,  are  addressed  to  them 
as  our  future  men  and  women,  toward  which  estate 
they  are  rapidly  advancing,  and  in  which  they  will 
need  for  their  guidance  all  things  good  and  true 
that  can  be  stored  up  in  their  memories.  Most 
of  the  actors  are  men  and  women, — and  the  trials 
and  temptations  to  which  they  are  subjected,  such 
as  are  experienced  in  maturer  years.  The  object 
is  to  fix  in  the  young  mind,  by  familiar  illustra 
tions,  true  principles  and  just  views  of  life  and 
its  varied  responsibilities. 


THE  POOR   WOODCUTTEK. 


A 


S  Mr.  Edgar  was  leaving  the  break 
fast  room,  one  cold  morning  in  Febru 
ary,  his  wife  called  after  him,  and  said — 

"Our  wood  is  gone;  we  must  have  more 
to-day." 

"  Not  all  gone !"  returned  Mr.  Edgar,  in 
a  tone  of  surprise. 

"Yes.  Sally  says  there  are  only  three 
or  four  sticks  in  the  cellar." 

"I  thought  we  had  enough  to  last  all 
winter,"  said  Mr.  Edgar. 

"The  cold  has  been  unusually  severe, 
you  must  remember,"  was  replied. 

"  I  know.  But  it  is  now  only  the  begin 
ning  of  February.  A  cord  of  good  hickory 


10  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

wood  ought  to  have  lasted  all  winter.  Per- 
kins  says  he  doesn't  burn  but  one  cord  in 
his  air-tight  stove  from  November  to  April." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Ed 
gar,  a  little  fretfully ;  "  I'm  sure  the  nursery 
is  never  too  warm." 

"  It's  wasted  by  the  servants  in  kindling 
fires  in  the  range  and  heater,  I  suppose," 
remarked  Mr.  Edgar,  as  he  closed  the  door 
after  him,  and  went  away. 

Mr.  Edgar  happened  to  feel  just  at  this 
time,  particularly  poor.  His  income  was 
not  large,  yet  ample,  if  dispensed  with  pro 
per  care,  for  the  comfortable  support  of  his 
iimiily.  A  rather  freer  use  of  money  than 
was  prudent,  all  things  considered,  had 
drained  his  purse  so  low  as  to  bring  on,  as 
just  said,  a  feeling  of  poverty;  and  the 
thought  of  having  to  pay  out  four  or  five 
dollars  for  wood,  when  he  had  believed  that 
there  was  fuel  enough  in  the  cellar  to  last 
until  spring  opened,  was,  in  consequence, 
most  unpleasant.  It  seemed  little  better 
than  throwing  so  mucn  money  away.  No 


THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER.  11 

such  feeling  was  experienced  a  week  before, 
when  he  paid  three  dollars  for  concert 
tickets,  nor  when,  a  few  days  previously, 
he  expended  ten  dollars  in  porcelain  orna 
ments  for  the  pier-table  and  mantel. 

But  it  was  in  liberality  of  this  kind  that 
the  poor  feeling  had  its  origin.  Mr.  Ed 
gar  found  that  money  had  been  going  too 
freely,  and  that  the  purse-strings  must  be 
held  with  a  tighter  hand.  Too  suddenly 
upon  this  resolution  came  the  announce 
ment  that  more  wrood  was  needed. 

"  111  get  only  a  quarter  of  a  cord,"  said 
Mr.  Edgar,  as  he  walked  along  toward 
his  office;  "that,  surely,  ought  to  carry 
us  through  the  cold  weather." 

But  on  reflection,  seeing  that  it  was  only 
the  first  week  in  February,  and  that  fire 
would  have  to  be  kept  up  in  the  stove  for 
nearly  three  months,  Mr.  Edgar  rather 
doubted  the  ability  of  a  quarter  of  a  cord 
of  wood  to  afford  the  amount  of  warmth 
required.  This  conclusion  of  his  mind  was 
evidenced  by  a  sigh.  Instead  of  going  di- 


12  THE    POOR   WOODCUTTER. 


rect  to  the  wharf  and  making  the  purchase, 
Mr.  Edgar  went  to  his  office,  where  he  gave 
up  his  thoughts  to  business  until  about 
half-past  two  o'clock.  He  then  stepped 
down  to  the  wharf,  to  purchase  the  wood 
previously  to  going  home  to  dinner.  He 
had  settled  the  question  as  to  the  quantity 
that  must  be  bought.  Nothing  less  than 
half  a  cord  would  be  sufficient. 

The  day  was  very  cold;  colder  than  he 
had  supposed;  for  in  his  comfortable  office 
but  few  evidences  of  the  degree  of  tempera 
ture  without  was  apparent.  As  he  drew 
near  the  wood-wharves  on  the  Delaware, 
the  sharp  wind  came  rushing  by,  causing 
him  to  shiver  beneath  his  double-wadded 
coat. 

"Any  wood,  sir?"  inquired  a  carter, 
tipping  his  hat  to  Mr.  Edgar,  as  that  gen 
tleman  reached  the  wharves. 

"  Yes,"  was  replied  indifferently. 

-  May  I  haul  it,  sir?" 

"I  don't  care." 


THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER.  13 

"Do  you  wish  it  sawed?"  eagerly  asked 
another. 

"  Oh  yes."     So  that  much  was  settled. 

Into  the  little  six-by-eight  office  of  the 
corder,  Mr.  Edgar  thrust  himself.  It  was 
filled  with  men,  poorly  clad,  and  bearing 
about  them  many  signs  of  extreme  poverty. 
Most  of  them  were  there  waiting  for  some 
job  to  turn  up  by  which  they  could  earn  a 
trifle.  The  extreme  cold  had  driven  them 
into  the  office. 

Mr.  Edgar  looked  at  these  poor  men, 
but  he  did  not  feel  any  pity  for  them.  Not 
that  he  was  indifferent  to  human  want  or 
suffering;  but  his  mind  was  intent  on 
knowing  the  price  of  wood,  and  he  was 
somewhat  worried  at  being  compelled  to 
expend  money  when  he  felt  so  very  poor. 

"What  is  hickory?"  inquired  Mr.  Ed 
gar,  as  he  crowded  up  to  the  corder's  desk. 

"  Six  dollars,"  was  the  answer. 

"Do  you  want  it  sawed,  sir?"  inquired 
a  man  in  a  quick  voice. 

"I  have  a  sawyer,"  replied  Mr  Edgar. 


14  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

"  Shall  I  haul  it  for  you  ?"  asked  another. 

"  Too  late,  Jack,"  answered  a  man  with 
a  whip  under  his  arm,  smiling  as  he  spoke ; 
"  I'm  ahead  of  you  in  that  job." 

"  What  is  oak  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Edgar, 
who  thought  the  hickory  too  high  in  price. 

"  Five  and  a  quarter." 

"  The  difference  is  too  small.  I  must 
have  the  hickory,"  was  replied. 

"  How  much  do  you  want  ?"  asked  the 
wood-merchant. 

"Only  half  a  cord." 

"  Do  you  wish  it  split  ?"  inquired  a  man 
who  looked  as  if  he  was  acquainted  with 
few  of  the  comforts  of  life,  and  was  not 
over-supplied  with  things  necessary. 

"  No,"  replied  the  buyer,  an  expression 
of  impatience  escaping  him. 

"  Walk  out  and  look  at  the  wood,"  said 
the  corder ;  "  you'll  find  none  better  on  the 
wharf." 

"  The  price  is  high." 

"  Not  for  this  season.  Last  year,  hickory 
brought  seven  dollars." 


THE    POOR    WOODCUTTER.  15 

Mr.  Edgar  felt  that  six  dollars  was  very 
high.  Five  and  a  half  he  had  fixed  as  a 
maximum  rate  in  his  mind. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  take  it,"  fell 
from  his  lips  in  company  with  a  sigh.  And 
he  moved  down  toward  the  great  piles  of 
wood  on  the  wharf,  to  look  at  the  article 
he  was  purchasing.  The  carter  and  saw 
yer  were  by  his  side.  After  selecting  the 
wood,  he  inquired  of  the  former  as  to  the 
price  of  hauling. 

"  Three  '  levies,"  replied  the  carter. 

"  Too  much.  I  have  never  paid  over 
half-a-dollar  a  cord." 

"  It's  the  regular  price  for  half  a  cord  of 
hickory,"  returned  the  carter. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  charge  me  for 
sawing  ?"  asked  Mr.  Edgar,  turning  towards 
a  poor  Irishman,  who  stood  by  with  his 
saw  on  his  arm. 

"  How  many  cuts  will  there  be  ?" 

"  Two.  I  want  it  sawed  into  three  pieces." 

"  That  will  be  just  a  cord  ?" 

"Yes." 

m.— B 


16  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

"  Seventy-five  cents." 

"What!" 

"  Three  quarters  is  the  price  of  sawing 
(hickory." 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  paid  over  half-a-dollar, 
or  sixty-two  cents,  at  most." 

"  You  may  have  got  pine  or  oak  sawed 
for  that,  but  not  hickory,"  said  the  sawyer. 

"  Is  three  quarters  the  regular  price  ?" 
inquired  Mr.  Edgar  of  the  carter. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  man  of  the 
whip,  "  they  always  get  that.  And  I'm 
sure,  sir,  that  if  you  were  to  run  a  saw 
through  a  cord  of  hard,  seasoned  hickory, 
you  wouldn't  think  yourself  too  well  paid 
even  at  seventy-five  cents." 

This  was  a  form  of  argument  that  car 
ried  with  it  a  convincing  force.  Mr.  Ed 
gar  disputed  the  charge  no  further.  While 
he  yet  stood  musing  over  the  great  price 
his  half-cord  wras  going  to  cost  him,  the 
man  who  had  asked  if  he  did  not  wish  it 
,<plit,  and  who  had  followed  him  along  the 


THE   POOR  WOODCUTTER.  IT 

wharf,   said,  as    he   touched    his  hat   re 
spectfully — 

"  I'd  like  to  split  it  for  you,  sir." 

Mr.  Edgar  remembered,  by  this  time, 
that  he  had  no  one  at  home  who  could  split 
the  wood  after  it  was  sawed.  So  he  in- 
quired  as  to  the  cost,  remarking,  at  the 
same  time,  that,  as  it  was  for  an  air-tight 
stove,  not  more  than  half  of  it  would  need 
to  be  cleft,  and  that  only  into  two  pieces. 

"I'll  do  it  for  half-a-dollar,"  said  the 
man. 

"  Half-a-dollar !"  returned  Mr.  Edgar,  in 
surprise;  "why  you  ask  more  than  the 
cost  of  hauling.  Oh  no !  I  shall  give  no 
such  price  as  that — I'll  split  the  wood  my 
self,  first.  If  you  choose  to  do  it  for  a 
quarter,  you  may.  Not  one  half  of  it  will 
have  to  be  touched  with  an  axe." 

The  man  shook  his  head,  and  said  that 
he  couldn't  walk  over  a  mile  and  split  half 
a  cord  of  wood  for  twenty-five  cents,  even 
if  he  was  very  poor. 


18  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

"  You're  doing  nothing,"  remarked  Mi- 
Edgar. 

"  Though  I  may  get  a  job  before  night 
worth  a  dollar,  instead  of  a  quarter." 

Mr.  Edgar  felt,  as  he  looked  at  the  man, 
whose  clothes  were  poor,  and  above  whose 
thin  face  masses  of  gray  hair  were  visible, 
that  it  was  hardly  generous  to  beat  him 
down  so  low  for  a  job  of  work  that  it  would 
take  him  at  least  a  couple  of  hours,  if  not 
more,  to  perform,  so  he  said — 

"  The  wood  is  merely  to  be  thrown  into 
Al^e  vault  beneath  the  pavement.  If  you 
will  pile  it  after  it  is  in,  I'll  give  you  half- 
a-dollar." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  man,  « I  will 
do  it." 

Mr.  Edgar  next  obtained  his  bill  from 
the  corder,  and  paying  it,  started  home  to 
dinner. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  the  wood 
arrived.  Half  an  hour  afterward,  Mr. 
Edgar  sat  down  in  his  parlour  with  one  ol 
his  children  on  Lis  lap,  and  glanced  out  of 


THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER.  19 


the  window.  The  wood-sawyer,  a  hearty- 
looking  Irishman,  was  working  away  with 
an  energy  that  brought  the  perspiration  to 
his  face,  although  the  thermometer  was 
within  five  degrees  of  zero ;  but  the  other 
man,  who  was  splitting  the  wood  and 
throwing  it  into  the  cellar,  was  slower  in 
his  movements,  and  appeared  to  be  suffer 
ing  from  the  severity  of  the  weather.  As 
Mr.  Edgar  sat  at  the  window  of  his  warm 
and  comfortable  parlour,  and  looked  out  at 
this  poor  man,  who  swung  his  axe  slowly, 
he  noticed  his  countenance  more  particu 
larly  than  he  had  done  before.  It  was 
marked  with  many  furrows,  worn  into  it 
by  toil  or  suffering,  and  had  something 
subdued  and  sad,  as  if  affliction  and  disap 
pointment  had  been  his  attendants  at  some 
part  of  his  journey  through  life.  As  Mr. 
Edgar  looked  at  him,  marking  the  slow 
progress  he  made  in  his  hard  work,  and 
then  thought  of  the  many  comforts  he  en 
joyed,  a  feeling  of  pity  came  into  his  heart. 

"Poor  man!     You  have  to  work  hard 
m.— 2  B  2 


20  THE    POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

hr  so  small  a  pittance,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  sighed  and  moved  from  the  window. 
He  made  an  effort,  in  doing  this,  to  turn 
his  thoughts  from  the  man ;  hut  this  was 
not  so  easily  accomplished.  In  thinking 
of  him,  he  could  not  help  contrasting  his 
own  labour  and  its  reward,  with  the  labour 
and  reward  of  the  woodcutter. 

"It  will  take  him  at  least  two  hours  to 
get  through  with  this  work,"  said  he  men 
tally;  "  and  what  will  the  hard  labour  yield? 
Fifty  cents!  And,  in  all  probability,  he 
has  a  wife  and  children  at  home.  Ah  me ! 
the  condition  of  the  poor  is  hard  enough." 

With  these  thoughts  came  an  inclination 
to  pay  the  man  more  for  his  work  than  he 
had  agreed  to  give  him.  This,  however, 
was  met,  instantly,  by  an  opposing  argu 
ment  that  arose  in  his  mind  almost  spon 
taneously. 

"  A  half-dollar  for  two  hours'  work," 
said  he,  "  is  very  good  for  a  labouring-man. 
Why,  that  would  be  two  dollars-and-a-half 
for  a  day's  work  of  ten  hours." 


THE    POOR    WOODCUTTER.  21 

To  meet  this  came  the  thought  that  split 
ting  and  piling  wood  was  not  steady  work ; 
and  that,  in  all  probability,  the  half-cord 
upon  which  the  man  was  now  engaged,  was 
his  only  job  for  the  day.  This  view  of  the 
case  was  not  so  pleasant. 

A  recollection  of  some  business  at  his 
office  which  required  attention  on  that  af 
ternoon,  caused  these  thoughts  to  retire. 

"  When  the  man  is  done  piling  away  the 
wood  in  the  cellar,  pay  him  half-a-dollar," 
said  Mr.  Edgar  to  his  wife,  as  he  was  leav 
ing  the  house  to  proceed  to  his  office. 

It  was  after  six  o'clock  when  Mr.  Edgar 
returned  home.  The  wind  rushed  and 
moaned  along  the  streets,  and  the  cold, 
which  had  increased  by  several  degrees 
since  midday,  penetrated  his  warm  gar 
ments,  and  caused  him  to  shiver  as  the 
chilly  air  seemed  to  pass  through  them  as 
if  they  were  but  gossamer.  On  arriving  at 
home,  Mr.  Edgar  was  rather  surprised  to 
find  the  man  he  had  employed  still  cutting 


22  THE    POOR    WOODCUTTER. 

wood  in  front  of  his  house,  altho  Jgh  it  was 
getting  quite  dark. 

"  A'n't  you  done  yet  ?"  said  he,  as  he 
stood  at  his  door. 

"Very  nearly,"  replied  the  man.  "I 
have  only  a  few  sticks  more  to  split,  and 
it  won't  take  me  a  great  while  to  pile  it  up 
in  the  cellar." 

Mr.  Edgar  went  in  and  joined  his  family, 
who  were  gathered  in  the  parlours  await 
ing  his  return.  His  children  were  all  well 
clad,  healthy,  and  happy,  and  both  he  and 
his  family  were  in  the  enjoyment  of  every 
comfort.  As  he  sat  down  among  them,  he 
could  not  help  thinking  of  the  man  at  work 
before  his  door,  nor  was  he  able  to  repress 
a  faint  sigh,  as  he  thought  of  what  would 
be  the  condition  of  his  beloved  ones  were 
he  able  to  earn  only  the  pittance  he  had 
grudged  to  the  poor  labourer. 

But  these  thoughts  gradually  retired,  and 
the  man  was  not  again  remembered  until 
they  were  all  assembled  in  the  dining-room 
to  partake  of  the  evening  meal.  Then,  the 


THE    POOR   WOODCUTTER.  28 

room  being  in  the  basement,  Mr.  Edgar 
could  hear  him  piling  the  wood  below.  It 
was  full  three  hours  since  the  work  was 
commenced,  and  yet  it  was  not  completed. 
He  was  in  a  warm,  bright  room,  clad  in  his 
dressing-gown,  and  with  his  family  around 
him,  while  the  poor  woodcutter  was  in  the 
cold  cellar,  alone,  toiling  by  the  light  of  a 
dim  lamp,  with  his  thoughts  turning,  per 
haps,  upon  his  little  ones  who  awaited  his 
coming  that  they  might  divide  the  loaf  he 
would  bring  them. 

As  he  thought  thus,  Mr.  Edgar  felt  how 
small  was  the  price  that  awaited  the  com 
pletion  of  the  poor  man's  task. 

"  I  will  pay  him  more,"  said  he,  in  his 
own  mind.  But  the  moment  this  was  con 
cluded,  he  remembered  that,  to  do  so,  would 
increase  the  price  of  his  hiilf-cord  of  wood. 
The  poor  feeling  came  back,  and  he  said — 

"  I  can't  afford  this.  If  I  were  to  over 
pay  every  one  after  this  fashion,  I  would 
find  myself  badly  off  by  the  end  of  the  year. 
The  carter  and  wood-sawyer  are  just  as 


24  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

much  entitled  to  a  higher  rate  of  payment 
as  this  man.  They  have  the  fixing  of  their 
own  price,  and  if  they  are  satisfied,  I  am 
sure  I  ought  to  be." 

But,  for  all  this,  humanity  kept  urging 
the  claims  of  the  woodcutter  in  the  cellar. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Edgar  would  determine  to 
act  generously,  and  hand  him  seventy-five 
cents  on  the  completion  of  his  work.  But 
that  would  make  his  half-cord  of  wood  cost 
nearly  five  dollars. 

"  If  I  were  to  increase  all  my  expenses 
at  this  rate,"  he  argued  with  himself,  "  I 
would  be  in  debt  several  hundred  dollars 
at  the  end  of  the  year." 

And  then  he  would  fall  back  to  his  ori 
ginal  state,  and  content  himself  with  the 
reflection  that  fifty  cents  was  enough  for 
the  job. 

UA  smart  man  could  have  done  it  in 
half  the  time  it  has  taken  him." 

This  thought  laid  the  matter  to  rest ;  but 
the  rest  was  only  temporary.  Thought  is 
the  form  of  the  affection;  and  sympathy 


THE   POOR  WOODCUTTER.  25 


for    the    poor    woodcutter    clothed    itself, 
spontaneously,  in  generous  thoughts. 

At  length  the  work  was  done.  Mr.  Ed 
gar  heard  the  man's  slow,  heavy  tread,  as 
he  ascended  the  cellar-stairs.  Now  came 
the  struggle  between  humanity  and  the 
poor  feeling  from  which  he  had  suffered  all 
day.  More  than  a  dozen  times,  before  the 
servant  came  in  and  said  that  the  wood 
cutter  had  finished  his  work,  did  he  alter 
his  mind.  Now  he  had  seventy-five  cents 
in  his  fingers,  and  now  fifty. 

"  Half-a-dollar  is  enough — it  is  all  he 
asked,"  he  would  say,  as  he  commenced 
drawing  his  hand  from  his  pocket  with  only 
the  single  coin  in  his  fingers.  "  But  he  is 
poor,  and  has  worked  very  hard.  A  quar 
ter  of  a  dollar  is  a  little  matter  to  you,  but 
much  to  him,"  would  cause  the  hand  to 
dive  down  again  into  the  pocket,  and  take 
up  an  additional  twenty-five  cent  piece. 
But  from  the  other  side  would  come  a 
word,  and  then  only  the  half-dollar  re 
mained. 


20  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

"  The  man  is  done,"  said  a  domestic, 
opening  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  while 
this  debate  was  still  going  on. 

The  time  for  the  decision  had  arrived; 
yet  the  question  was  not  settled.  Regard 
for  another's  good  had  not  been  able  to 
gain  the  victory  over  selfishness.  There 
was  still  an  active  struggle.  But  the  ne 
cessity  for  an  instant  determination  caused 
a  slight  confusion  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Ed 
gar,  and  in  this  state  the  half-dollar  was 
handed  to  the  domestic,  who  took  the  mo 
ney  and  retired.  He  heard  her  close  the 
door  after  her — heard  her  speak  to  the  man 
in  the  entry,  and  heard  the  man  walk  away ; 
while  a  painful  conviction  that  he  had  not 
done  right  in  the  case  before  him  impressed 
itself  upon  his  mind.  Now  that  it  was  too 
late  to  recall  the  act,  he  deeply  regretted 
what  he  had  done,  or  rather  what  he  had 
neglected  to  do,  and  felt  that  in  saving  the 
fourth  of  a  dollar,  lie  had  gained  only  a 
disquieted  mind. 

"  To  think,"  lie  murmured  to  himself, 


THE    POOR   WOODCUTTER.  27 

t;  that  I  could  have  let  the  saving  of  such 
a  paltry  sum  restrain  me  from  the  perform 
ance  of  an  act  of  humanity.  I  spend  dol 
lars  in  the  gratification  of  my  senses,  and 
part  freely  with  the  money  in  doing  so; 
but  when  the  question  of  compensation  to 
a  poor  labouring-man  comes  up,  I  chaffer  for 
the  value  of  a  few  pennies,  and  beat  down 
to  a  minimum  price,  instead  of  taking  a 
pleasure  in  paying  liberally.  Ah  me !  what 
strange  inconsistency !" 

Leaving  Mr.  Edgar  to  his  not  very  plea 
sant  reflections,  we  will  follow  the  wood 
cutter.  His  name  was  Harlan.  He  had 
been  better  off  than  now — owning  at  one 
time  a  small  farm  near  the  city,  from  which 
he  derived  a  comfortable  support  for  his 
family.  In  an  evil  hour  he  was  induced 
to  sell  this  farm  and  remove  to  Philadelphia, 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  a  store.  The 
result  was  as  might  have  been  expected. 
Knowing  nothing  of  business,  he  was  not 
able  to  conduct  it  successfully.  By  the 
end  of  three  years,  he  found  himself  unable 


III.— C 


28  THE    POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

to  go  on  any  longer.  Losses  from  trust- 
ing  out  his  goods,  and  from  unwise  pur 
chases,  added  to  the  greatly  increased  ex 
pense  of  his  family  from  residing  in  a  city, 
consumed  all  that  he  had,  and  he  was  forced 
to  close  his  store,  sell  off  his  stock,  and  set 
tle  up  the  business.  If,  after  this,  he  had 
been  even  with  the  world,  it  would  not 
have  been  so  bad.  But  debt  was  added  to 
the  burden  of  his  troubles. 

The  question,  "  What  next  to  do  ?"  was 
now  more  easily  asked  than  answered. 
Mr.  Harlan  had  no  trade  at  wThich  he  could 
work,  and  was  comparatively  a  stranger  in 
the  city.  His  chances  for  getting  employ 
ment  were,  therefore,  small ;  and  as  winter 
was  closing  in,  he  might  well  begin  to  feel 
deeply  troubled,  especially  as  his  family 
consisted  of  his  wife  and  three  children. 
In  order  to  meet  some  of  the  most  urgent 
of  his  creditors,  who  wrere  not  satisfied  when 
they  saw  the  man  broken  up  in  business, 
and  every  barrel,  box,  and  package  of  his 
goods  sold  off,  and  the  proceeds  distributed, 


THE   POOR  WOODCUTTER.  29 

but  still  clamoured  for  their  pay  and  threat 
ened  all  manner  of  consequences  if  the  mo 
ney  did  not  come,  he  sold  the  best  of  his 
furniture — thus  depriving  his  family  of 
many  comforts,  and  reducing  himself  to  a 
still  lower  position. 

"What  shall  I  do?" 

Ah !  how  often  and  anxiously  was  that 
question  asked,  and  how  silent  was  all 
around  after  its  utterance.  Bread  must  be 
had  for  his  little  ones,  and  no  man  was 
more  willing  to  work  for  it  than  he ;  but 
who  would  give  him  work  ?  By  a  neighbour 
who  had  dealt  in  his  store,  and  with  whom 
he  conferred  on  the  subject,  he  was  advised 
to  try  and  get  a  place  as  labourer  in  one  of 
the  stores  on  the  wharves.  Acting  on  this 
suggestion,  he  visited  the  store  of  every 
merchant  from  South  to  Vine  streets,  and 
asked  for  work ;  but  without  success.  The 
fall  business  was  over,  and  many  were  dis 
pensing  with  regular  aid  instead  of  employ 
ing  more. 

"  1  must  do  something,"  said  the  unhap- 


30  THE    POOR   WOODCUTTER. 


py  man,  in  this  crisis  of  his  affairs.  "  1 
will  saw  wood — do  any  thing  for  my  chil 
dren.  How  does  Gardiner  manage  to  get 
bread  ?"  he  asked  of  the  neighbour  before 
mentioned.  He  spoke  of  a  poor  man 
living  not  far  off. 

"  By  picking  up  odd  jobs  along  the 
wharves,"  replied  the  man.  "  He  splits 
and  piles  up  wood,  carries  bundles,  and 
does  little  turns  of  one  kind  and  another 
for  people  who  may  happen  to  need  his 
services." 

On  this  hint  Harlan  acted.  He  went 
on  the  next  day  to  the  wharf,  with  an  axe 
under  his  arm,  and  came  home  at  night  as 
poor  as  he  had  gone  out  in  the  morning. 
Several  opportunities  had  offered  for  ob 
taining  work,  but  more  eager  seekers  for 
employment  thrust  him  aside  and  secured 
even  the  jobs  for  which  he  had  half  bar 
gained.  On  the  day  following,  he  was 
more  successful,  and  earned  a  dollar. 
From  that  time  he  went  to  the  wharves 
regularly  in  search  of  work.  Sometimes 


THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER.  31 


he  did  not  earn  half-a-dollar  during  the 
whole  day ;  at  other  times  he  did  better. 
But  the  avarage  of  his  gains  was  not  over 
four  dollars  a  week.  This  sum  he  found 
altogether  insufficient  for  the  wants  of  his 
family.  Many  privations  were  the  conse 
quence.  Sickness  came  at  last  to  add  to 
the  distress  of  the  unhappy  man.  For  two 
weeks  he  was  confined  to  the  house — most 
of  the  time  to  his  bed — and  had  it  not  been 
for  the  kindness  and  charity  of  some  neigh 
bours,  his  family  would  have  suffered  for 
food. 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  out  again,  and 
before  he  had  so  far  recovered  his  strength 
as  to  be  really  able  to  go  to  work,  he  was 
on  the  wharf,  seeking  employment.  He 
earned  but  a  trifle  on  the  first  and  second 
days,  and  on  the  third  day  his  only  job  was 
that  obtained  from  Mr.  Edgar.  The  split 
ting  and  piling  of  half  a  cord  of  seasoned 
hickory  wood  was  work  beyond  his  strength. 
It  took  him  full  three  hours  to  perform  it, 
and  when  he  received  his  wages  and  turn- 

01 


32  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

ed  his  steps  homeward,  his  head  was  ach 
ing  violently ;  he  felt  feverish,  and  almost 
staggered  as  he  walked. 

Mr.  Edgar,  as  has  been  seen,  was  far 
from  feeling  happy.  He  could  not  get  the 
thought  of  the  poor  labouring-man  out  of 
his  mind,  try  as  he  would,  nor  help  feeling 
that,  even  though  he  had  paid  him  the 
price  agreed  upon  for  his  work,  he  had  not 
dealt  by  him  fairly.  So  occupied  was  his 
mind  with  this  idea,  that  he  was  not  able 
to  sleep  for  nearly  two  hours  after  retiring 
for  the  night.  With  the  morning  came 
back  the  same  thoughts.  He  felt  troubled 
and  ashamed.  On  going  to  his  office,  he 
found  himself  still  haunted  by  the  man's 
image.  Finally  he  determined  to  go  to 
the  wharves,  search  him  out,  and  pay  him 
half-a-dollar  more,  in  hopes  thus  to  ease 
his  conscience,  or  lay  the  troubled  spirit 
that  was  haunting  him.  Acting  up  to  this 
resolution,  Mr.  Edgar  went  down  to  the 
Delaware,  and  walked  along  the  wood- 
wharves  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  in  hopes 


THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER.  33 

of  seeing  the  man.  But  his  search  was  not 
successful.  As  he  was  about  going  away, 
he  met  the  sawyer  who  had  been  at  his 
house  on  the  day  before,  and  remembered 
him. 

aHave  you  seen  any  thing  of  the  man 
who  split  my  wood  for  me  yesterday  ?"  he 
asked  of  the  sawyer. 

"  He  hasn't  been  on  the  wharf  to-day," 
was  replied. 

"  Where  does  he  live  ?" 

"  In  Federal  street,  near  Seventh." 

"  Do  you  know  his  name  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     His  name  is  Harlan." 

"Is  he  very  poor ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  he's  been  sick.  He 
wasn't  able  to  undertake  such  a  job  as  he 
had  yesterday,  and  I'm  afraid  it  has  put 
him  back." 

"Has  he  a  family?" 

"  Oh  yes.     He  has  a  wife  and  children." 

Mr.  Edgar  stood  musing  for  some  mo 
ments,  Then  he  asked  particularly  as  to 


34  THE   POOR   'WOODCUTTER. 

the  man's  residence,  and  on  being  told,  went 
away. 

In  a  small  room,  in  the  third  story  of  a 
house  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city,  sat  a 
man  in  a  deeply  desponding  attitude.  Three 
children  were  near  him,  the  oldest  not  over 
seven  years  of  age ;  and  a  woman  stood  by 
the  fire  of  a  few  coals  that  scarcely  took  the 
chill  from  the  air  of  the  small  apartment, 
washing.  The  woman  worked  on  in  si 
lence,  and  the  man  sat  with  his  eyes 
gloomily  cast  upon  the  floor. 

"  Indeed,  Jane,"  said  the  man,  "  I  must 
go  out  and  earn  something  to-day.  All 
that  I  received  yesterday  is  gone ;  and 
when  our  dinner  is  eaten,  there  will  not 
be  a  mouthful  of  food  left," 

The  man,  as  he  walked  across  the  room, 
staggered,  and  had  to  lean  against  the  wall 
to  support  himself.  He  was  very  j:  ale,  and 
his  eyes  were  drooping  and  dim. 

The  wife  left  her  washing  instantly,  and 
going  to  her  husband's  side,  took  hold  of 
his  arm  and  drew  him  towards  the  bed 


THE    POOR   WOODCUTTER.  35 


that  was  in  the  room,  saying,  as  she  did 
so — 

"You  must  lie  down,  Henry.  Indeed 
you  must ;  for  you  are  sick.  Don't  think 
of  going  out.  You  are  not  able  to  work, 
and  the  attempt  will  do  you  harm.  I  am 
sure  you  could  not  walk  a  square." 

While  she  yet  spoke,  she  had  drawn  him 
to  the  bed,  upon  which  he  sank  down, 
murmuring — 

"  Heaven  help  us !" 

Just  then  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 
On  being  opened,  a  man  stepped  in  and 
said — 

"  Does  Mr.  Harlan  live  here  ?" 

At  this  inquiry,  the  sick  man  started  up, 
and  recognised  in  the  visiter  the  person 
for  whom  he  had  done  the  job  of  work  on 
the  day  previous,  that  had  proved  too 
much  for  his  strength.  Hope  instantly 
came  into  his  despairing  heart,  and  he 
cried — 

"  0  sir — save  my  children !" 

All  nighf,  the  man  had  lain  in  a  raging 


m.— s 


36  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

fever,  and  his  pulses  yet  beat  quickly  and 
irregularly.  He  had  little  more  strength 
than  a  child.  The  excitement  caused  by 
this  sudden  and  unexpected  appearance, 
was  too  much  for  him,  and  he  fell  back,  on 
making  this  almost  wildly  uttered  appeal, 
so  exhausted  that  he  panted  like  a  fright 
ened  child  who  had  shrunk  trembling  upon 
its  mother's  bosom. 

Mr.  Edgar,  for  he  was  the  visiter,  felt 
deeply  moved  by  what  he  saw  and  heard. 
Sitting  down  by  the  bedside,  and  speaking 
a  word  of  encouragement  to  the  poor  man 
in  order  to  quiet  his  mind,  he  proceeded  to 
make  inquiries  of  the  wife  as  to  their  cir 
cumstances  and  the  causes  which  had  led 
to  their  present  destitution.  The  narra 
tive  affected  him  much. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  after  the  wife  had 
finished  her  relation,  which  ended  with  a 
reference  to  her  husband's  wish  to  go  out 
and  look  for  work  on  that  day,  "  he  must 
remain  in  bed,  and  I  will  send  him  a  phy 
sician.  Here  is  more  than  he  could  earn ;" 


THE    POOR   WOODCUTTER.  37 

and  he  handed  the  woman  a  couple  of  dol 
lars.  "Get  necessary  food  for  yourself 
and  children.  To-morrow  I  will  either 
see  you  myself,  or  send  to  know  if  Mr. 
Harlan  is  better.  In  the  mean  time,  don't 
let  your  minds  be  troubled.  Better  em 
ployment  can  be  had  for  you,  I  am  very 


sure." 


"  If  we  were  only  back  in  the  country 
again !"  sighed  the  woman. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Mr.  Harlan;  "if  we 
were  only  on  some  little  place  in  the  coun 
try  !  It  was  a  sad  day  for  us  when  wre 
turned  our  thoughts  towards  the  city." 

"  The  way  may  open  for  you  to  get  back," 
returned  Mr.  Edgar;  "at  least,  hope  for 
the  best.  You  have  evidently  reached  the 
lowest  point  in  the  descending  circle  of  for 
tune,  and  it  is  but  fair  to  think  that  the 
movement  will  now  be  upward." 

When  Mr.  Edgar  retired,  it  was  with  a 
deeper  feeling  of  sympathy  for  the  poor 
than  he  had  ever  known;  and  his  cheek 
burned  as  he  called  to  mind  the  many  in- 


38  THE   POOR   WOODCUTTER. 

stances  in  which  he  had  paid  them  their 
small  wages  with  a  grudging  spirit,  and 
meanly  beaten  them  down  in  their  prices 
for  work,  when  these  prices  were  already 
so  low  as  to  be  scarcely  sufficient  for  the 
commonest  necessaries  of  life.  He  thought 
of  the  many  times  he  had  chaffered  for  a 
sixpence  or  a  shilling  with  a  porter  or  poor 
labourer,  and  after  gaining  a  trifling  ad 
vantage  at  the  expense  of  justice,  thrown 
double  the  amount  away  in  some  foolish 
expenditure.  All  this  was  humiliating, 
but  salutary.  It  was  a  lesson  in  life  not 
soon  to  be  forgotten.  In  Mr.  Harlan's  case 
he  took  an  active  interest.  He  saw  that 
his  family  were  properly  cared  for  until  he 
was  able  to  go  to  work  again,  and  then  ob 
tained  for  him  the  place  of  overseer  on  the 
farm  of  an  acquaintance  who  wanted  a  com 
petent  farmer.  When  spring  opened,  Har- 
lan  went  back  to  the  country  with  a  hope 
ful  spirit,  and  Mr.  Edgar  went  on  his  way 
through  life  more  thoughtful  than  he  had 
been,  and  far  more  considerate  of  the  poor. 


AN   EVENING'  AT  HOME. 


Pa-e  47. 


AN  EVENING  AT  HOME. 


"N 


OT  going  to  the  ball?"  said  Mrs.  Lind 
ley,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  surprise. 
"  What  has  come  over  the  girl  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  she  says  she  is  not 
going." 

"Doesn't  her  dress  fit?" 

"  Yes,  beautifully." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  then?" 

"  Indeed,  ma,  I  cannot  tell.  You  had 
better  go  up  and  see  her.  It  is  the  strangest 
notion  in  the  world.  Why,  you  couldn't 
hire  me  to  stay  at  home." 

Mrs.  Lindley  went  up-stairs,  and,  enter 
ing  her  daughter's  room,  found  her  sitting 
on  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  a  beautiful 

ball-dress  in  her  hand. 

in.— D  41 


42  AN   EVENING   AT   HOME. 

"It  isn't  possible,  Helen,  that  you  are 
not  going  to  this  ball  ?"  said  she. 

Helen  looked  up  with  a  half-serious,  half- 
smiling  expression  on  her  face : 

"I've  been  trying,  for  the  last  half- 
hour,"  she  replied,  "to  decide  whether  I 
ought  to  go,  or  stay  at  home.  I  think, 
perhaps,  I  ought  to  remain  at  home." 

"  But  what  earthly  reason  can  you 
have  for  doing  so?  Don't  you  like  your 
dress  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !  very  much.  I  think  it  beau 
tiful." 

"Doesn't  it  fit  you?" 

"  As  well  as  any  dress  I  ever  had." 

"  Are  you  not  well?" 

"  Very  well." 

"  Then  why  not  go  to  the  ball  ?"  It  will 
be  the  largest  and  most  fashionable  of  the 
season.  You  know  that  your  father  and 
myself  are  both  going.  We  shall  want  to 
see  you  there,  of  course.  Your  father  will 
require  some  very  good  reason  for  your  ab 


sence." 


AN   EVENING  AT    HOME.  43 

Helen  looked  perplexed  at  her  m ether's 
last  remark. 

"  Do  you  think  father  will  be  displeased 
if  I  remain  at  home?"  she  asked. 

"  I  think  he  will,  unless  you  can  satisfy 
him  that  your  reason  for  doing  so  is  a  very 
good  one.  Nor  shall  I  feel  that  you  are 
doing  right.  I  wish  all  my  children  to  act 
under  the  government  of  a  sound  judg 
ment.  Impulse,  or  reasons  not  to  be  spoken 
of  freely  to  their  parents,  should  in  no  case 
influence  their  actions." 

Helen  sat  thoughtful  for  more  than  a 
minute,  and  then  said,  her  eyes  growing 
dim  as  she  spoke — 

"  I  wish  to  stay  at  home  for  Edward's 
sake." 

"  And  why  for  his,  my  dear  ?" 

"  He  doesn't  go  to  the  ball,  you  know." 

"  Because  he  is  too  young,  and  too  back 
ward.  You  couldn't  hire  him  to  go  there. 
But,  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  re 
main  at  home.  You  would  never  partake  of 
any  social  amusement  were  this  always  to 


44  AN   EVENING   AT   HOME. 

influence  you.  Let  him  spend  the  evening 
in  reading.  He  must  not  expect  his  sisters 
to  deny  them  selves  all  recreation  in  which 
he  cannot  or  will  not  -participate." 

"  He  does  not.  I  know  he  would  not 
hear  to  such  a  thing  as  my  staying  at  home 
on  his  account." 

"Then  why  stay?" 

"  Because  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  do  so 
This  is  the  way  I  have  felt  all  day,  when 
ever  I  have  thought  of  going.  If  I  were 
to  go,  I  know  that  I  would  not  have  a 
moment's  enjoyment.  He  need  not  know 
why  I  remain  at  home.  To  tell  him  that 
I  did  not  wish  to  go  will  satisfy  his  mind." 

"  I  shall  not  urge  the  matter,  Helen," 
Mrs.  Lindley  said,  after  a  silence  of  some 
moments.  "  You  are  old  enough  to  judge 
in  a  matter  of  this  kind  for  yourself.  But 
I  must  say,  I  think  you  rather  foolish. 
You  will  not  find  Edward  disposed  to  sa 
crifice  so  much  for  you." 

"  Of  that  I  do  not  think,  mother.  Of 
thi>^  I  ought  not  to  think." 


AN   EVENING   AT   HOME.  45 

"Perhaps  not.  Well,  you  may  do  as 
like.  But  I  don't  know  what  your  father 
will  say." 

Mrs.  Lindley  then  left  the  room. 

EdAvard  Lindley  was  at  the  critical  age 
of  eighteen ;  that  period  when  many  young 
men,  especially  those  who  have  been  blest 
with  sisters,  would  have  highly  enjoyed  a 
ball.  But  Edward  was  shy,  timid,  and 
bashful  in  company,  and  could  hardly  ever 
be  induced  to  go  out  to  parties  with  his  sis 
ters.  Still,  he  was  intelligent  for  his  years, 
and  companionable.  His  many  good  quali 
ties  endeared  him  to  his  family,  and  drew 
forth  from  his  sisters  toward  him  a  very 
tender  regard. 

Among  his  male  friends  were  several 
about  his  own  age,  members  of  families 
with  whom  his  own  was  on  friendly  terms. 
With  these  he  associated  frequently,  and 
with  two  or  three  others,  quite  intimately. 
For  a  month  or  two  Helen  noticed  that 
one  or  another  of  these  young  friends 
called  every  now  and  then  for  Edward, 


46  AN    EVENING    AT    HOME. 

in  the  evening,  and  that  he  went  out  with 
them  and  stayed  until  bedtime.  But  unless 
his  sisters  were  from  home,  he  never  went 
of  his  own  accord.  The  fact  of  his  being 
out  with  these  young  men  had,  from  the 
first,  troubled  Helen;  though  the  reason 
of  her  feeling  troubled  she  could  not  tell. 
Edward  had  good  principles,  and  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  entertain  fears  of  any 
clearly  defined  evil.  Still  a  sensation  of 
uneasiness  was  always  produced  when  he 
was  from  home  in  the  evening. 

Her  knowing  that  Edward  would  go  out 
after  they  had  all  left,  was  the  reason  why 
Helen  did  not  wish  to  attend  the  ball. 
The  first  thought  of  this  had  produced  an 
unpleasant  sensation  in  her  mind,  which 
increased  the  longer  she  debated  the  ques 
tion  of  going  away  or  remaining  at  home. 
Finally,  she  decided  that  she  would  not  go. 
This  decision  took  place  after  the  inter 
view  with  her  mother,  which  was  onlj 
half  an  hour  from  the  time  of  starting. 

Edward  knew   nothing  of  the  intention 


AN   EVENING    AT    HOME.  47 

of  his  sister.  He  was  in  his  own  room, 
dressing  to  go  out,  and  supposed,  when  he 
heard  the  carriage  drive  from  the  door, 
that  Helen  had  gone  with  the  other  mem 
bers  of  the  family.  On  descending  to  the 
parlour,  he  was  surprised  to  find  her  sitting 
by  the  centre  table,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand. 

"  Helen !  Is  this  you !  I  thought  you  had 
gone  to  the  ball.  Are  you  not  well  ?"  he 
said  quickly  and  with  surprise,  coming  up 
to  her  side. 

Looking  into  her  brother's  face  with  a 
smile  of  sisterly  regard,  Helen  replied,  "  I 
have  concluded  to  stay  at  home  this  even 
ing.  I  am  going  to  keep  you  company." 

"  Are  you,  indeed  !  Right  glad  am  I  of 
it !  though  I  am  sorry  you  have  deprived 
yourself  of  the  pleasure  of  this  ball,  which, 
I  believe,  is  to  be  a  very  brilliant  one.  I 
was  just  going  out,  because  it  is  so  dull  at 
home  when  you  are  all  away." 

"  I  am  not  particularly  desirous  of  going 
to  the  ball.  So  little  so,  that  the  thought 


48  AN   EVENING   AT   HOME. 


of  your  being  left  here  all  alone  had  suffi 
cient  influence  over  me  to  keep  me  away." 

"  Indeed !  Well,  I  must  say  you  are 
kind,"  Edward  returned,  with  feeling.  The 
self-sacrificing  act  of  his  sister  had  touched 
him  sensibly. 

Both  Helen  and  her  brother  played  well. 
She  upon  the  harp  and  piano,  and  he  upon 
the  flute  and  violin.  Both  were  fond  of 
music,  and  practised  and  played  frequently 
together.  Part  of  the  evening  was  spent  in 
this  way,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  each. 
Then  an  hour  passed  in  reading  and  con 
versation,  after  which  music  was  again  re 
sorted  to.  Thus  lapsed  the  time  pleasantly 
until  the  hour  for  retiring  came,  when  they 
separated,  both  with  an  internal  feeling  of 
pleasure  more  delightful  than  they  had  ex 
perienced  for  a  long  time.  It  was  nearly 
three  o'clock  before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lindley, 
and  the  daughter  who  had  accompanied 
them  to  the  ball,  came  home.  Hours  be 
fore,  the  senses  of  both  Edward  and  Helen 
had  been  locked  in  forgetfulness. 


AN    EVENING   AT   HOME.  49 


Time  passed  on.  Edward  Lindley  grew  up 
and  became  a  man  of  sound  principles — a 
blessing  to  his  family  and  society.  He  saw 
his  sisters  well  married ;  and  himself,  final 
ly,  led  to  the  altar  a  lovely  maiden.  She 
made  him  a  truly  happj  husband.  On  the 
night  of  his  wedding,  as  he  sat  beside 
Helen,  he  paused  for  some  time,  in  the 
midst  of  a  pleasant  conversation,  thought 
fully.  At  last  he  said — 

"  Do  you  remember,  sister,  the  night  you 
stayed  home  from  the  ball  to  keep  me  com 
pany?" 

"  That  was  many  years  ago.  Yes,  I  re 
member  it  very  well,  now  you  have  re 
called  it  to  my  mind." 

"  I  have  often  since  thought,  Helen,"  he 
said,  with  a  serious  air,  "  that  by  the  simple 
act  of  thus  remaining  at  home  for  my  sake, 
you  were  the  means  of  saving  me  from  de 
struction." 

"  How  so  ?"  asked  the  sister. 

"  I  was  just  then  beginning  to  form  an 
intimate  association  with  young  men  of 


50  AN   EVENING    AT   HOME. 

my  own  age,  nearly  all  of  whom  have  since 
turned  out  badly.  I  did  not  care  a  great 
deal  about  their  company ;  still,  I  liked  so 
ciety,  and  used  to  be  with  them  frequently 
— especially  when  you  and  Mary  wen^  out 
in  the  evening.  On  the  night  of  the  ball 
to  which  you  were  going,  these  young  men 
had  a  supper,  and  I  was  to  have  been  with 
them.  I  did  not  wish  particularly  to  join 
them,  but  preferred  doing  so  to  remaining  at 
home  alone.  To  find  you,  as  I  did,  so  un 
expectedly,  in  the  parlour,  was  an  agree 
able  surprise  indeed.  I  stayed  at  home  with 
a  new  pleasure,  which  was  heightened  by 
the  thought  that  it  was  your  love  for  me 
that  had  made  you  deny  yourself  for  my 
gratification.  We  read  together  on  that 
evening,  we  played  together,  we  talked  of 
many  things.  In  your  mind  I  had  never 
before  seen  so  much  to  inspire  my  own 
with  high  and  pure  thoughts.  I  remembered 
the  conversation  of  the  young  men  with 
whom  I  had  been  associating,  and  in  which 
I  had  taken  pleasure,  with  something  like 


AN   EVENING   AT   HOME.  51 

disgust.  It  was  low,  sensual,  and  too  much 
of  it  vile  and  demoralizing.  Never,  from 
that  Lour,  did  I  join  them.  Their  way, 
even  in  the  early  stage  of  life's  journey, 
I  saw  to  be  downward,  and  downward  it 
has  ever  since  been  tending.  How  often 
since  have  I  thought  of  that  point  in  time, 
so  full-fraught  with  good  and  evil  influences ! 
Those  few  hours  spent  with  you  seemed  to 
take  scales  from  my  eyes.  I  saw  with  a 
new  vision.  I  thought  and  felt  differently. 
Had  you  gone  to  the  ball,  and  I  to  meet 
those  young  men,  no  one  can  tell  what 
might  have  been  the  consequences.  Sen 
sual  indulgences,  carried  to  excess,  amid 
songs  and  sentiments  calculated  to  awaken 
evil  instead  of  good  feelings,  might  have 
stamped  upon  my  young  and  delicate  mind 
a  bias  to  low  affections  that  never  would 
have  been  eradicated.  That  was  the  great 
starting-point  in  life — the  period  when  I 
was  coming  into  a  state  of  rationality  and 
freedom.  The  good  prevailed  over  the  evil, 
and  by  the  agency  of  my  sister,  as  an  angel 


52  AN'  EVENING    AT   HOME. 

sent  by  the  Author  of  all  benefits  to  save 


me." 


Like  Helen  Lindley,  let  every  elder  sis 
ter  be  thoughtful  of  her  brothers  at  that 
critical  period  in  life,  when  the  boy  is 
about  passing  up  to  the  stage  of  manhood, 
and  she  may  save  them  from  many  a  snare 
set  for  their  unwary  feet  by  the  evil  one. 
In  closing  this  little  sketch,  we  can  say  no 
thing  better  than  has  already  been  said  by 
an  accomplished  American  authoress,  Mrs. 
Farrar : — 

"  So  many  temptations,"  she  remarks, 
"  beset  young  men,  of  which  young  women 
know  nothing,  that  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  that  your  brothers'  evenings 
should  be  happily  past  at  home,  that 
their  friends  should  be  your  friends,  that 
their  engagements  should  be  the  same  as 
yours,  and  that  various  innocent  amuse 
ments  should  be  provided  for  them  in  the 
family  circle.  Music  is  an  accomplishment 
chiefly  valuable  as  a  home  enjoyment,  as 
rallying  round  the  piano  the  various  mem- 


AN    EVENING   AT   HOME.  53 

bers  of  a  family,  and  harmonizing  their 
hearts  as  well  as  voices,  particularly  in  de 
votional  strains.  I  know  no  more  agree 
able  and  interesting  spectacle,  than  that  ot 
brothers  and  sisters  playing  and  singing 
together  those  elevated  compositions  in 
music  and  poetry  which  gratify  the  taste 
and  purify  the  heart,  while  their  fond  pa 
rents  sit  delighted  by.  I  have  seen  and 
heard  an  elder  sister  thus  leading  the  fa 
mily  choir,  who  was  the  soul  of  harmony 
to  the  whole  household,  and  whose  life  was 
a  perfect  example  of  those  virtues  which  I 
am  here  endeavouring  to  inculcate.  Let 
no  one  say,  in  reading  this  chapter,  that 
too  much  love  is  here  required  of  sisters, 
that  no  one  can  be  expected  to  lead  such  a 
self-sacrificing  life :  for  the  sainted  one  to 
whom  I  refer  was  all  I  would  ask  my  sis 
ter  to  be,  and  a  happier  person  never  lived. 
To  do  good  and  to  make  others  happy  was 
her  rule  of  life,  and  in  this  she  found  the 
art  of  making  herself  so. 

"  Sisters   should   always   be  willing   to 
in.— 4  ni.— E 


54  AN   EVENING   AT   HOME. 

walk,  ride,  visit  with  their  brothers;  and 
esteem  it  a  privilege  to  be  their  companions. 
It  is  worth  while  to  learn  innocent  games 
for  the  sake  of  furnishing  brothers  with 
amusements  and  making  home  the  most 
agreeable  place  to  them. 

"  I  have  been  told  by  some,  who  have 
passed  unharmed  through  the  temptations 
of  youth,  that  they  owed  their  escape  from 
many  dangers  to  the  intimate  companion 
ship  of  affectionate  and  pure-minded  sis 
ters.  They  have  been  saved  from  a  ha 
zardous  meeting  with  idle  company  by 
some  home  engagement,  of  which  their 
sisters  were  the  charm ;  they  have  refrained 
from  mixing  with  the  impure,  because 
they  would  not  bring  home  thoughts  and 
feelings  which  they  could  not  share  with 
those  trusting,  loving  friends;  they  have 
put  aside  the  wine-cup  and  abstained  from 
stronger  potations,  because  they  would  not 
profane  with  their  fumes  the  holy  kiss  with 
which  they  were  accustomed  to  bid  their 
sisters  good-night." 


WHY,  ANNA!  WHAT  is  THE  MATTER?" 


Page  66. 


THE  TEMPEKANCE  MEETING 

•     IN  STEVE  MILLER'S  BAR-ROOM 


^THOMAS  LE  ROY  was  a  mechanic,  who 
by  industry  and  economy  had  saved 
enough  to  buy  himself  a  neat  little  cottage, 
with  ground  for  a  garden  and  pasturage 
for  a  cow.  Early  in  the  mornings,  be 
fore  he  went  to  his  work,  he  gave  an 
hour  or  two,  during  the  spring  and  sum 
mer  months,  to  improving  and  beautify 
ing  this  little  homestead.  All  his  fences 
were  in  perfect  order ;  the  shrubbery 
nicely  trimmed,  and  the  vines  trained 
in  the  neatest  manner.  Every  one  said 
that  the  grounds  around  his  cottage  were 
better  kept  than  any  in  the  neighbourhood. ' 


58  THE    TEMPERANCE    MEETING 

When  remarks  of  this  kind  came  to  the 
cars  of  Le  Roy,  which  was  frequently  the 
case,  he  felt  highly  gratified,  and  was  sti 
mulated  to  increased  efforts. 

But  the  mechanic,  with  all  his  industry 
and  thrift,  had  one  fault,  and  that  a  very 
bad  one,  for  it  was  a  fault  that  increased 
by  indulgence.  He  would  take  his  glass 
occasionally;  and  would  visit,  at  least  two 
or  three  times  a  week,  the  village  tavern, 
to  meet  a  few  acquaintances  and  talk  over 
the  news.  This  habit  troubled  his  wife, 
who  had,  in  her  own  family,  seen  and  felt 
the  evil  effects  of  intemperance,  and  shrank 
with  an  instinctive  fear  from  even  the  sha 
dow  of  the  monster.  Once  or  twice  she 
had  hinted  at  the  character  of  her  feelings, 
but  the  effect  produced  on  the  mind  of  her 
husband  was  surprise  and  displeasure.  He 
felt  iii  no  danger,  and  was  hurt  that  his 
wife  could  even  dream  of  such  a  thing  as 
his  falling  into  habits  of  intemperance. 

At  first,  Le  Roy's  visits  to  the  tavern 
were  rarely  oftener  than  once  a  week,  and 


W   STEVE   MILLER  S   BAR-ROOM.  59 

then  he  never  drank  more  than  a  single 
glass.  He  went  more  for  the  pleasant  com 
pany  he  found  there.  But,  in  process  of 
time,  two  evenings  in  the  week  saw  the 
mechanic  at  the  tavern ;  and  it  generally 
took  two  glasses  of  an  evening  to  satisfy 
his  increasing  desire  for  liquor.  Three 
evenings  and  three  glasses  were  the  next 
progressive  steps ;  and  so  on,  until  he  felt 
no  longer  contented  at  home  a  single  even 
ing  in  the  week. 

The  tavern-keeper,  whose  name  was 
Stephen  Miller,  had  commenced  his  liquor- 
selling  business  some  ten  years  before,  and 
was  then  about  the  poorest  man  in.  the  vil 
lage.  He  was  poor,  because  he  was  too 
lazy  to  work  steadily  at  his  trade,  which 
was  that  of  a  house-carpenter.  At  first  he 
opened,  in  a  miserable  little  shanty  of  a 
place,  with  a  few  jugs  of  liquor,  and  some 
bad  groceries  to  tempt  people  to  his  shop. 
He  didn't  seem  to  do  a  great  deal,  but 
somehow  or  other,  at  the  end  of  a  year,  he 

was  able  to  buy  the  furniture  of  one  of  the 
•a 


GO  THE   TEMPERANCE    MEETING 

taverns  in  the  village,  which  was  sold  at 
the  death  of  the  owner,  and  assume  the 
responsibility  of  a  public-house  for  the 
entertainment  of  travellers.  People  won 
dered.  They  could  not  understand  it. 
How  a  man  who  never  seemed  to  have 
more  than  fifty  dollars'  worth  of  things 
in  his  shop  could  save  up  three  or  four 
hundred  dollars  in  a  year — the  amount  of 
cash  paid  down  by  Miller — passed  their 
simple  comprehension.  None  but  he  knew 
how  many  glasses  and  pints  were  sold  in  a 
day,  nor  how  much  profit  was  made  on 
every  dram. 

Two  years  after  this  the  tavern-stand  was 
sold.  Miller  was  the  purchaser,  and  paid 
down  a  thousand  dollars  of  the  purchasL-- 
money!  It  was  a  mystery  to  every  one 
ho\v  a  man  who  had  been  before  so  thrift 
less  should  now  be  getting  along  so  fast. 

A  couple  of  years  more  and  Miller  bought 
a  farm  in  the  neighbourhood,  which  one  of 
his  best  customers,  who  had  fallen  into  in 
temperate  habits,  had  neglected,  and  who, 


STEVE  MILLER'S  BAR-ROOM.          61 


in  the  end,  found  himself  obliged  to  sell  out 
Some  people  began  to  open  their  eyes  after 
this.  It  was  plain  enough  that  Jones  had 
lost  his  property  through  drunkenness; 
though  all  did  not  see  so  plainly  that,  in 
becoming  its  owner,  Miller  had  not  rendered 
back  to  the  community  in  which  he  lived 
any  equivalent  use.  Not  long  after  this, 
the  house  and  acre-lot  of  another  good  cus 
tomer  went  into  the  hands  of  the  sheriff, 
and  Miller  was  the  purchaser. 

"  What  was  Steve  Miller  looking  about 
here  for,  this  afternoon?"  asked  Mrs.  Le  Roy 
of  her  husband,  one  evening  when  he  came 
home  to  supper? 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  me 
chanic.  "  Looking  about  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  came  along  with  another  man, 
and  stood  and  looked  at  the  house,  and 
talked  for  some  time ;  and  then  they  both 
went  round,  and  looked  over  the  fence  into 
the  garden.  I  was  ashamed  to  have  them 
do  so,  for  every  thing  is  so  neglected  to 
what  it  used  to  be." 


THE   TEMPERANCE   MEETING 


Le  Roy  made  some  indifferent  answer, 
merely  to  satisfy  his  wife,  who  seemed 
worried  by  the  incident.  But  the  fact  men 
tioned  produced  an  unpleasant  impression 
on  his  mind. 

"  I  wonder  what  business  he  has  spying 
about  my  place?"  said  he  to  himself.  "I 
don't  owe  him  any  thing." 

The  satisfaction  with  which  he  uttered 
the  last  part  of  the  sentence  was  rather 
diminished  by  the  recollection  that  his  bill 
at  the  store  had  been  suffered  to  run  up 
until  it  amounted  to  over  sixty  dollars,  and 
that  he  owed  the  shoemaker  nearly  twenty 
more.  Debts  like  these  had  never  before 
been  permitted  to  accumulate. 

After  supper  he  was  led  by  his  inclina 
tions,  as  usual,  to  the  bar-room  of  Miller, 
which  was  always  well  filled  with  pleasant 
companions.  His  wife  saw  him  depart  witli 
troubled  feelings.  She  was,  alas !  too  well 
aware  that  he  had  entered  the  downward 
road,  and  that  his  steps  were  on  the  way 
to  ruin. 


IN  STEVE  MILLER'S  BAR-ROOM.  63 

Just  off  from  the  bar-room  of  Miller's 
tavern  was  a  little  parlour,  and  Le  Roy, 
not  feeling  very  social  on  that  particular 
evening,  took  his  glass  of  liquor  and  news 
paper  and  sat  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
company,  at  a  table  close  to  the  door  of 
this  parlour,  which  stood  ajar.  He  became 
directly  aware  that  the  landlord  was  in 
the  next  room,  conversing  with  some  one 
in  an  undertone,  and  as  he  heard  his  own 
name  mentioned,  he  felt  excused  for  listen 
ing  attentively  to  all  that  wras  said. 

"  Things  don't  look  as  tidy  around  him 
as  they  used  to,"  remarked  the  person  who 
was  talking  with  Miller. 

"  Not  by  any  means.  I  was  told  that 
this  was  the  case,  and  walked  over  to-day 
to  see  for  myself.  Evidently  he  is  running 
down  fast.  I  asked  Phillips  about  him  a 
little  while  ago,  and  he  told  me  that  his 
Lill  at  the  store  was  sixty  dollars.  In 
former  times  he  never  owed  a  cent." 

"  He'll  go  to  the  dogs  before  long.'" 

"  I  presume  so.     Well,  I  shall  keep  my 


64  THE   TEMPERANCE   MEETING 

eye  on  that  little  place  of  his.  I  always 
had  a  fancy  for  it,  and  would  like  to  get  it 
at  a  bargain  when  it  goes  off,  as  it  will 
have  to  before  a  great  while." 

"  You  buy  a  good  deal  of  property?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  did  you  pay  for  Shriver's  place?" 

"  Nine  hundred  dollars." 

"No  more?" 

"No;  Shriver  refused,  once,  to  my  cer 
tain  knowledge,  sixteen  hundred  for  it." 

"  He  let  it  run  down  shamefully." 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  the  tavern-keeper. 
u  He  became  a  mere  sot,  and  neglected 
every  thing.  I  wouldn't  trust  him,  now,  for 
a  three-cent  glass  of  whisky.  His  place 
was  sold,  of  course,  and  I  bought  it  at  a 
bargain.  I  wouldn't  take,  this  hour,  an  ad 
vance  of  four  hundred  dollars  on  the  pur 
chase.  It's  always  best  to  buy  property 
that  has  been  suffered  by  a  drunken  fellow 
to  run  down  for  a  few  years.  It  gets  to 
look  a  great  deal  worse  than  it  really  is, 
and  you're  sure  to  buy  a  bargain." 


IN  STEVE  MILLER'S  BAR-ROOM.          65 

u  No  doubt,  you'll  have  Le  Roy's  place, 
in  the  end,  under  this  system." 

"  To  a  moral  certainty.  In  about  two 
years  he  will  have  to  sell ;  and  see  if  I  am 
not  the  man  who  buys.  I  want  that  place 
for  my  daughter  Jane.  As  soon  as  I  get  it, 
I  will  pull  down  the  little  kitchen,  and  build 
a  dining-room  twenty  feet  square  where 
it  stands.  Half  of  the  garden  I  will  put  in 
a  green  lawn,  and  make  an  orchard  of  the 
pasture-ground.  You'll  hardly  know  the 
place  in  a  year  after  I'm  the  owner." 

Le  Hoy  waited  to  hear  no  more.  Rising 
up  quickly,  he  left  the  bar-room  without 
speaking  to  any  one,  and  started  on  his 
way  homeward. 

"  Have  my  place !"  he  muttered  to  him 
self  as  he  hurried  along,  clenching  his  fist 
and  setting  his  teeth  firmly  as  he  spoke. 
"  Have  my  place !  We  will  see !" 

On  reaching  his  home  and  entering  sud 
denly,  Le  Roy  found  his  wife  sitting  by  her 
little  work-table  with  her  face  bent  down 
and  buried  in  her  hands.  She  looked 


60  THE    TEMPERANCE    MEETING 


up  quickly,  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps, 
and  he  saw  that  tears  were  on  her  cheeks. 

"Why,  Anna!  what's  the  matter?"  he 
inquired. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  replied  evasively, 
trying  to  force  a  smile. 

Le  Roy  looked  at  her  for  some  moments, 
earnestly,  and  as  he  did  so,  the  truth  flashed 
over  his  mind.  She,  too,  saw  as  clearly  as 
the  tavern-keeper,  that  he  was  on  the  road 
to  ruin ! 

"Anna," — Le  Roy  spoke  seriously,  yet 
with  earnestness,  and  in  a  tone  of  affection 
and  confidence, — "Anna,  I  have  found  out 
why  Steve  Miller  was  spying  about  here 
to-day." 

"Why?" 

"  He  wants  this  place  for  his  daughter 
Jane." 

Mrs.  Le  Roy  looked  bewildered. 

"  He  thinks  that,  in  about  two  years,  I 
will  run  it  down,  so  that  he  will  be  able  to 
get  it  for  about  half  its  value.  He  was 
looking  to  see  how  much  progress  I  had 


IN  STEVE  MILLER'S  BAR-ROOM.          67 

made  in  the  road  to  ruin,  and  thinks  the 
prospect  for  his  getting  the  place  in  aboui 
two  years  very  fair.  He  will  tear  down 
the  kitchen,  and  build  a  handsome  dining- 
room  in  its  place,  and  so  improve  the 
ground  that  it  will  hardly  be  known  as 
the  same  spot  in  a  year.  But,  Anna,  he'll 
find  himself  mistaken  !  I've  got  my  eyes 
open.  Not  while  I  arn  living  shall  Steve 
Miller  own  this  property !" 

Tears  of  thankfulness  gushed  from  the 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Le  Roy,  as  she  said — 

"  Oh,  what  a  mountain  you  have  taken 
from  my  heart !" 

On  the  next  day,  Le  Roy  related  to  every 
acquaintance  he  met  the  conversation  he 
had  heard  while  in  Miller's  bar-room; 
and  these  told  the  story  to  others.  So 
that,  before  evening,  it  was  all  over  the 
village. 

"  Let's  go  there  in  a  crowd  to-night," 
suggested  one,  "  and  organize  a  temperance 
society  in  the  bar-room." 

The  suggestion  struck  the  fancy  of  all 


m.— 


f>8  THE   TEMPERANCE   MEETING 


who  heard  it  That  night  the  bar-room  of 
the  tavern-keeper  was  filled  to  overflowing. 
Miller  was  at  first  delighted,  though  a  little 
•surprised  that  no  one  called  for  liquor,  and 
at  the  air  of  business  that  sat  upon  every 
countenance. 

"  I  move  that  Le  Roy  take  the  chair," 
said  one. 

The  mechanic  was  handed  to  the  post 
of  honour,  when  he  related  minutely  the 
occurrences  and  conversation  of  the  day 
previous ;  and  then  said  that  the  object  of 
the  meeting  was  to  organize  a  temperance 
society,  and  thus  prevent  the  tavern-keeper 
from  getting  all  their  property.  "  I  can 
assure  the  gentleman,"  he  said  in  closing, 
"that  his  daughter  Jane  will  never  live 
in  my  place  while  I  have  breath  in  my 
body." 

"  My  hand  to  that !"  was  echoed  around 
the  room  by  a  dozen  voices. 

The  society  was  regularly  formed,  the 
pledge  signed  by  every  individual  present, 
and  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  landlord  passed 


IN  STEVE  MILLER'S  BA^-ROOM.          6? 

for  the  use  of  his  bar-room.  Five  minutes 
afterward  he  occupied  it  alone. 

Stephen  Miller's  affairs  were  never  after 
ward  as  prosperous  as  they  had  been;, 
but  fewer  estates  run  down  in  the  village, 
and  fewer  families  are  reduced  to  beggary. 

And  so  it  would  be  in  hundreds  of  towns 
and  villages,  if  the  inhabitants  would  act 
as  Le  Roy  and  his  friends  did  in  this  case. 


I'LL   SEE   ABOUT   IT. 


1\/TR.  EASY  sat  alone  in  his  counting- 
room,  one  afternoon,  in  a  most  comfort 
able  frame,  both  as  regards  mind  and  body. 
A  profitable  speculation  in  the  morning  had 
brought  the  former  into  a  state  of  great 
complacency,  and  a  good  dinner  had  done 
all  that  was  required  for  the  repose 
of  the  latter.  He  was  in  that  delicious, 
half-asleep,  half-awake  condition,  which,  oc 
curring  after  dinner,  is  so  very  pleasant. 
The  newspaper,  whose  pages  at  first  pos 
sessed  a  charm  for  his  eyes,  had  fallen, 
with  the  hand  that  held  it,  upon  his  knee. 
His  head  was  gently  reclined  backwards 
against  the  top  of  a  high  leather-cushioned 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  71 

chair;  while  his  eyes,  half-opened,  saw  all 
things  around  him  but  imperfectly.  Just 
at  this  time  the  door  was  quietly  opened, 
and  a  lad  of  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years, 
with  a  pale,  thin  face,  high  forehead,  and 
large  dark  eyes,  entered.  He  approached 
the  merchant  with  a  hesitating  step,  and 
soon  stood  directly  before  him. 

Mr.  Easy  felt  disturbed  at  this  intrusion, 
for  so  he  felt  it.  He  knew  the  lad  to  be 
the  son  of  a  poor  widow,  who  had  once 
seen  better  circumstances  than  those  that 
now  surrounded  her.  Her  husband  had, 
while  living,  been  his  intimate  friend;  and 
he  had  promised  him,  at  his  dying  hour,  to 
be  the  protector  and  adviser  of  his  wife  and 
children.  He  had  meant  to  do  all  he  pro 
mised  ;  but,  not  being  very  fond  of  trouble, 
except  where  stimulated  to  activity  by  the 
hope  of  gaining  some  good  for  himself,  he 
had  not  been  as  thoughtful  in  regard  to 
Mrs.  Mayberry  as  he  ought  to  have  been. 
She  was  a  modest,  shrinking,  sensitive  wo 
man,  and  had,  notwithstanding  her  need  of 

III.— 5  F2 


72  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

i\  friend  and  adviser,  never  called  upon  Mr. 
Easy,  nor  even  sent  a  request  for  him  to  act 
for  her  in  any  thing,  except  once.  Her  hus 
band  had  left  her  poor.  She  knew  little 
of  the  world.  She  had  three  quite  young 
children,  and  one,  the  oldest,  about  sixteen. 
Had  Mr.  Easy  been  true  to  his  pledge,  he 
might  have  thrown  many  a  ray  upon  her 
dark  path,  and  lightened  her  burdened 
he<irt  of  many  a  doubt  and  fear.  But  he 
had  permitted  more  than  a  year  to  pass 
since  the  death  of  her  husband,  without 
having  once  called  upon  her.  This  neglect 
had  not  been  intentional.  His  will  was 
good,  but  never  active  at  the  present  mo 
ment.  "  To-morrow,"  or  "  next  week,"  or 
"  very  soon,"  he  would  call  upon  Mrs.  May- 
berry;  but  to-morrow,  or  next  week,  or 
very  soon,  had  never  yet  come. 

As  for  the  widow,  soon  after  her  hus 
band's  death,  she  found  that  poverty  was 
to  be  added  to  affliction.  A  few  hundred 
dollars  riade  up  the  sum  of  all  that  she 
received  after  the  settlement  of  his  busi- 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  73 


ness,  which  had  never  been  in  a  very  pros 
perous  condition.  On  this,  under  the  ex 
ercise  of  extreme  frugality,  she  had  been 
enabled  to  live  for  nearly  a  year.  Then 
her  scanty  store  made  it  but  too  apparent 
that  individual  exertion  was  required  in 
order  to  procure  the  means  of  support  for 
her  little  family.  Ignorant  of  the  way  in 
which  this  was  to  be  done,  and  having  no 
one  to  advise  her,  nearly  two  months  more 
passed  before  she  could  determine  what  to 
do.  By  that  time  she  had  but  a  few  dol 
lars  left,  and  was  in  a  state  of  great  mental 
distress  and  uncertainty.  She  then  applied 
for  work  at  some  of  the  shops,  and  obtained 
common  sewing,  but  at  prices  that  could 
not  yield  her  any  thing  like  a  support. 

Hiram,  her  oldest  son,  had  been  kept  at 
school  up  to  this  period.  But  now  she  had 
to  withdraw  him.  It  was  impossible  any 
longer  to  pay  his  tuition  fees.  He  was  an 
intelligent  lad — active  in  mind,  and  pure 
in  his  moral  principles;  but,  like  his  mo 
ther,  sensitive,  and  inclined  to  avoid  obser« 


74 


vation.  Like  her,  too,  he  had  a  proud  in 
dependence  of  feeling,  that  made  him  shrink 
from  asking  or  accepting  a  favour,  or  putting 
himself  under  an  obligation  to  any  one. 
lie  first  became  aware  of  his  mother's  true 
condition,  when  she  took  him  from  school, 
and  explained  the  reason  for  so  doing.  At 
once  his  mind  rose  into  the  determination  to 
do  something  to  aid  his  mother.  He  felt 
a  glowing  confidence,  arising  from  the  con 
sciousness  of  strength  within.  He  felt  that 
he  had  both  the  will  and  the  power  to  act, 
and  to  act  efficiently. 

"  Don't  be  disheartened,  mother,"  said 
he,  with  animation.  "  I  can  and  will  do 
something.  I  can  help  you.  You  have 
worked  for  me  a  great  many  years.  Now 
I  will  work  for  you." 

Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way. 
But  it  is  often  the  case,  that  the  will  lacks 
the  kind  of  intelligence  that  enables  it  to 
find  the  right  way  at  once.  So  it  proved 
in  the  case  of  Hiram  Mayberry.  He  had 
a  strong  enough  will,  but  did  not  know  how 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  75 

to  bring  it  into  activity.  Good,  without 
its  appropriate  truth,  is  impotent.  Of  this 
the  poor  lad  soon  became  conscious.  To 
the  question  of  his  mother — 

"  What  can  you  do,  child  ?"  an  answer 
came  not  so  readily. 

"  Oh,  I  can  do  a  great  many  things,"  was 
easily  said;  but,  even  as  he  said  this,  a 
sense  of  inability  followed. 

The  will  impels,  and  then  the  under 
standing  seeks  for  the  means  of  effecting 
the  purposes  of  the  will.  In  the  case  of 
young  Hiram,  thought  followed  desire. 
He  pondered  for  many  days  over  the 
means  by  which  he  was  to  aid  his  mother. 
But,  the  more  he  thought,  the  more  con 
scious  did  he  become  that,  in  the  world, 
he  was  but  a  weak  boy.  That  however 
strong  might  be  his  purpose,  his  means  of 
action  were  limited.  His  mother  could  aid 
him  but  little.  She  had  but  one  sugges 
tion  to  make,  and  that  was,  that  he  should 
endeavour  to  get  a  situation  in  some  store 
or  counting-rooin.  This  he  attempted  to 


76  I'LL  SEE  \BOUT  IT. 

do.  Following  her  direction,  lie  called 
upon  Mr.  Easy,  who  promised  to  see  about 
looking  him  up  a  situation.  It  happened, 
the  day  after,  that  a  neighbour  spoke  to 
him  about  a  lad  for  his  store — (Mr.  Easy 
had  already  forgotten  his  promise) — Hiram 
was  recommended,  and  the  man  called  to 
see  his  mother. 

"  How  much  salary  can  you  afford  to 
give  him?"  asked  Mrs.  Mayberry,  after 
learning  all  about  the  situation,  and  feeling 
satisfied  that  her  son  ought  to  accept  of  it. 

"Salary,  ma'am?"  returned  the  store 
keeper,  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  "  We  never 
give  a  boy  any  salary  for  the  first  year. 
The  knowledge  that  is  acquired  of  business 
is  always  considered  a  full  compensation. 
After  the  first  year,  if  he  likes  us,  and  we 
like  him,  we  may  give  him  seventy-five 
or  a  hundred  dollars." 

Poor  Mrs.  Mayberry's  countenance  fell 
immediately. 

"  I  wouldn't  think  of  his  going  out  now, 
if  it  were  not  in  the  hope  of  his  earning 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  77 

something,"  said  she,  in  a  disappointed 
voice. 

"  How  much  did  you  expect  him  to 
earn  ?"  was  asked  by  the  storekeeper. 

"  I  didn't  know  exactly  what  to  expect. 
But  I  supposed  that  he  might  earn  four  or 
five  dollars  a  week." 

"  Five  dollars  a  week  is  all  we  pay  our 
porter,  an  able-bodied,  industrious  man," 
was  returned.  "  If  you  wish  your  son  to 
become  acquainted  with  mercantile  busi 
ness,  you  must  not  expect  him  to  earn 
much  for  three  or  four  years.  At  a  trade, 
you  may  receive  for  him  barely  a  sufficien 
cy  to  board  and  clothe  him,  but  nothing 


more." 


This  declaration  so  dampened  the  feel 
ings  of  the  mother,  that  she  could  not  re 
ply  for  some  moments.  At  length  she 
said — 

"  If  you  will  take  my  boy,  with  the  un 
derstanding,  that,  in  case  I  am  not  able  to 
support  him,  or  hear  of  a  situation  where 
a  salary  can  be  obtained,  you  will  let  him 


78 


leave  your  employment  without  hard  feel 
ings,  he  shall  go  into  your  store  at  once." 

To  this  the  man  consented,  and  Hiram 
Mayberry  went  with  him  according  to 
agreement.  A  few  weeks  passed,  and  the 
lad,  liking  both  the  business  and  his  em 
ployer,  his  mother  felt  exceedingly  anxious 
for  him  to  remain.  But  she  sadly  feared 
that  this  could  not  be.  Her  little  store 
was  just  about  exhausted,  and  the  most 
she  had  yet  been  able  to  earn  by  working 
for  the  shops,  was  a  dollar  and  a  half  a 
week.  This  was  not  more  than  sufficient 
to  buy  the  plainest  food  for  her  little  flock. 
It  would  not  pay  rent,  nor  get  clothing. 
To  meet  the  former,  recourse  was  had  to 
the  sale  of  her  husband's  small,  select  li 
brary.  Careful  mending  kept  the  younger 
children  tolerably  decent,  and  by  altering 
for  him  the  clothes  left  by  his  father,  she 
was  able  to  keep  Hiram  in  a  suitable  con 
dition  to  appear  at  the  store  of  his  em 
ployer. 

Thus  matters  went  on  for  several  months, 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  79 

Mrs.  Mayberry  working  late  and  early. 
The  natural  result  was,  a  gradual  failure 
of  strength.  In  the  morning,  when  she 
awoke,  she  would  feel  so  languid  and  heavy, 
that  to  rise  required  a  strong  effort;  and 
even  after  she  was  up,  and  attempted  to  re 
sume  her  labours,  her  trembling  frame  almost 
refused  to  obey  the  dictates  of  her  will.  At 
length  nature  gave  way.  One  morning  she 
was  so  sick  that  she  could  not  rise.  Her 
head  throbbed  with  a  dizzy,  blinding  pain 
— her  whole  body  ached,  and  her  skin  burn 
ed  with  fever.  Hiram  got  something  for 
the  children  to  eat,  and  then  taking  the 
youngest,  a  little  girl  about  two  years  old, 
in^o  the  house  of  a  neighbour,  who  had 
showed  them  some  good-will,  asked  her  if 
she  would  take  care  of  his  sister  until  he 
returned  home  at  dinner-time.  This  the 
neighbour  readily  consented  to  do — promis 
ing,  also,  to  call  in  frequently  to  see  his 
mother. 

At  dinner-time  Hiram  found  his  mother 

quite  ill.    She  was  no  better  a,t  night.    For 

in.— a 


80  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

three  days  the  fever  raged  violently.  Then, 
under  the  careful  treatment  of  their  old 
family  physician,  it  was  subdued.  After 
that  she  gradually  recovered,  but  very 
slowly.  The  physician  said  she  must  not 
attempt  again  to  work  as  she  had  done. 
This  injunction  was  scarcely  necessary. 
She  had  not  the  strength  to  do  so. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  will  do,  Mrs. 
Mayberry,"  a  neighbour,  who  had  often 
aided  her  by  kind  advice,  said,  in  reply  to 
the  widow's  statement  of  her  unhappy  con 
dition.  "  You  cannot  maintain  these  chil 
dren,  certainly.  And  I  don't  see  how,  in 
your  present  feeble  state,  you  are  going  to 
maintain  yourself.  There  is  but  one  thing 
that  I  can  advise,  and  that  advice  I  give 
with  reluctance.  It  is  to  endeavour  to  get 
two  of  your  children  into  some  orphan  asy 
lum.  The  youngest  you  may  be  able  to 
keep  with  you.  The  oldest  can  support 
himself  at  something  or  other." 

The  pale  cheek  of  Mrs.  Mayberry  grew 
paler  at  this  proposition.     She  half  sobbed, 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  81 

caught  her  breath,  and  looked  her  adviser 
with  a  strange,  bewildered  stare  in  the  face. 

"  Oh  no !  I  cannot  do  that.  I  cannot 
be  separated  from  my  dear  little  children. 
Who  will  care  for  them  like  a  mother?" 

"  It  is  hard,  I  know,  Mrs.  Mayberry.  But 
necessity  is  a  stern  ruler.  You  cannot  keep 
them  with  you — that  is  certain.  You  have 
not  the  strength  to  provide  them  with  even 
the  coarsest  food.  In  an  asylum,  with  a 
kind  matron,  they  will  be  better  off  than 
under  any  other  circumstances." 

But  Mrs.  Mayberry  shook  her  head. 

"  No — no — no,"  she  replied — "  I  cannot 
think  of  such  a  thing.  I  cannot  be  sepa 
rated  from  them.  I  shall  soon  be  able  to 
work  again — better  able  than  before." 

The  neighbour,  who  felt  deeply  for  her, 
did  not  urge  the  matter.  When  Hiram  re 
turned  at  dinner-time,  his  face  had  in  it  a 
more  animated  expression  than  usual. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he  came 
in,  "  I  heard  to-day  that  a  boy  was  wanted 
at  the  Gazette-office,  who  could  write  a 


good  hand.  The  wages  are  to  be  four  dol 
lars  a  week." 

"  You  did!"  Mrs.  Mayberry  said  quickly, 
her  weak  frame  trembling,  although  she 
struggled  hard  to  be  composed. 

"  Yes.  And  Mr.  Easy  is  well  acquainted 
with  the  publisher,  and  could  get  me  the 
place,  I  am  sure." 

"  Then  go  and  see  him  at  once,  Hiram. 
If  you  can  secure  it,  all  will  be  well;  if  not, 
your  little  brothers  and  sisters  will  have  to 
be  separated,  perhaps  sent  into  an  orphan 
asylum." 

Mrs.  May  berry  covered  her  face  with  hei 
hands  and  sobbed  bitterly  for  some  mo 
ments. 

Hiram  ate  his  frugal  meal  quickly,  and 
returned  to  the  store,  where  he  had  to  re 
main  until  his  employer  went  home  and 
dined.  On  his  return,  he  asked  liberty  to 
be  absent  for  half  an  hour,  which  was 
granted.  He  then  went  to  the  counting- 
house  of  Mr.  Easy,  and  disturbed  him  as 
has  been  seen.  Approaching  with  a  timid 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  83 

step  and  a  flushed  brow,  lie  said  in  a  con 
fused  and  hurried  manner — 

"  Mr.  Easy,  there  is  a  lad  wanted  at  the 
Gazette-office." 

"Well?"  returned  Mr.  Easy  in  no  very 
cordial  tone. 

"  Mother  thought  you  would  be  kind 
enough  to  speak  to  Mr.  G for  me." 

"  Haven't  you  a  place  in  a  store  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  But  I  don't  get  any  wages. 
And  at  the  Gazette-office  they  will  pay  four 
dollars  a  week." 

"  But  the  knowledge  of  business  to  be 
gained  where  you  are  will  be  worth  a  great 
deal  more  than  four  dollars  a  week." 

"  I  know  that,  sir.  But  mother  is  not 
able  to  board  and  clothe  me.  I  must  earn 
something." 

"  Oh  ay,  that's  it.  Very  well,  I'll  see 
about  it  for  you." 

"  When  shall  I  call,  sir?"  asked  Hiram. 

"  When  ?  Oh,  almost  any  time.  Say  to 
morrow  or  next  day." 

The  lad  departed,  and  Mr.  Easy's  head 

02 


84 


fell  back  upon  the  chair,  the  impression 
which  had  been  made  upon  his  mind  pass 
ing  away  almost  as  quickly  as  writing  upon 
water. 

With  anxious,  trembling  hearts  did  Mrs. 
Mayberry  and  her  son  wait  for  the  after 
noon  of  the  succeeding  day.  On  the  suc 
cess  of  Mr.  Easy's  application  rested  all 
their  hopes.  Neither  she  nor  Hiram  ate 
over  a  few  mouthfuls  at  dinner-time.  The 
latter  hurried  away,  and  returned  to  the 
store,  there  to  wrait  with  trembling  eager 
ness  until  his  employer  should  come  from 
dinner,  and  he  again  be  free  to  go  and  see 
Mr.  Easy. 

To  Mrs.  Mayberry  the  afternoon  passed 
slowly.  She  had  forgotten  to  tell  her  son 
to  return  home  immediately,  if  the  applica 
tion  should  be  successful.  He  did  not  come 
back,  and  she  had,  consequently,  to  remain 
in  a  state  of  anxious  suspense  until  dark. 
He  came  in  at  the  usual  hour.  His  de 
jected  countenance  told  of  disappoint 
ment. 


I'LL    SEE   ABOUT    IT.  85 

"  Did  you  see  Mr.  Easy  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
May  berry  in  a  low,  troubled  voice. 

"  Yes.  But  he  hadn't  been  to  the  Ga 
zette-office.  He  said  he  had  been  very 
busy.  But  that  he  would  see  about  it  soon." 

Nothing  more  was  said.  The  mother 
and  son,  after  sitting  silently  and  pensive 
during  the  evening,  retired  early  to  bed. 
On  the  next  day,  urged  on  by  his  anxious 
desire  to  get  the  situation  of  which  he  had 
heard,  Hiram  again  called  at  the  counting- 
room  of  Mr.  Easy,  his  heart  trembling  with 
hope  and  fear.  There  were  two  or  three 
men  present.  Mr.  Easy  cast  upon  him  rather 
an  impatient  look  as  he  entered.  His  ap 
pearance  had  evidently  annoyed  the  mer 
chant.  Had  Hiram  consulted  his  feelings,  he 
would  have  retired  at  once.  But  there  was 
too  much  at  stake.  Gliding  to  a  corner  of 
the  room,  he  stood  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  and  a  look  of  anxiety  upon  his  face, 
until  Mr.  Easy  was  disengaged.  At  length 
the  gentlemen  with  whom  he  was  occupied 
went  away,  and  Mr.  Easy  turned  toward 


86  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

the  boy.  Hiram  looked  up  eirnestly  in 
his  face. 

"  I  have  really  been  so  much  occupied, 
my  lad,"  said  the  merchant  in  a  kind  of 
apologetic  tone,  "  as  to  have  entirely  for 
gotten  my  promise  to  you.  But  I  will  see 
about  it.  Come  in  again  to-morrow." 

Hiram  made  no  answer,  but  turned  with 
a  sigh  toward  the  door.  The  keen  disap 
pointment  expressed  in  the  boy's  face, 
and  the  touching  quietness  of  his  manner, 
reached  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Easy.  He  was 
not  a  hard-hearted  man,  but  selfishly  indif- 
rent  to  others.  He  could  feel  deeply  enough 
if  he  would  permit  himself  to  do  so. 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  said  he.  And  then 
stood  in  a  musing  attitude  for  a  moment 
or  two.  "  As  you  seem  so  anxious  about 
this  matter,"  he  added,  "  if  you  will  wait 
here  a  little  while,  I  will  step  down  and 
see  Mr.  G at  once." 

The  boy's  face  brightened  instantly.  Mr. 
Easy  saw  the  effect  of  what  he  said,  and  it 
made  the  task  he  was  about  entering  upon 


I'LL   SEE   ABOUT    IT.  87 


reluctantly  a  lighter  one.  Hiram  waited 
for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  so  eager  to 
know  the  result  that  he  could  not  compose 
himself  to  sit  down.  The  sound  of  Mr. 
Easy's  step  at  the  door,  at  length  made  his 
heart  bounl.  The  merchant  entered.  Hi 
ram  looked  into  his  face.  One  glance  was 
sufficient  to  dash  every  dearly  cherished 
hope  to  the  ground. 

"  I  am  sorry/'  said  Mr.  Easy,  "  but  the 
place  was  filled  this  morning.  I  was  a 
little  too  late." 

The  boy  w^as  unable  to  control  his  feel 
ings.  The  disappointment  was  too  great. 
Tears  gushed  from  his  eyes  as  he  turned 
away  and  left  the  counting-room  without 
speaking. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  done  wrong,"  said  Mr. 
Easy  to  himself,  as  he  stood  in  a  musing 
attitude,  by  his  desk,  about  five  minutes 
after  Hiram  had  left.  If  I  had  seen  about 
the  situation  when  he  first  called  upon  me, 
I  might  have  secured  it  for  him.  But  it's 

too  late  now." 
in— ti 


68  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  ir. 

After  saying  this,  the  merchant  placed 
his  thumbs  in  the  annholes  of  his  waist 
coat,  and  commenced  walking  the  floor  of 
his  counting-room,  backwards  and  forwards. 
He  could  not  get  out  of  his  mind  the  image 
of  the  boy  as  he  turned  from  him  in  tears, 
nor  drive  away  thoughts  of  the  friend's 
widow  whom  he  had  neglected.  This  state 
of  mind  continued  all  the  afternoon.  Its  na 
tural  effect  was  to  cause  him  to  cast  about 
in  his  mind  for  some  way  of  getting  em 
ployment  for  Hiram  that  would  yield  imme 
diate  returns.  But  nothing  presented  itself. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  make  room  for 
him  here  ?"  he  at  length  said.  "  He  looks 
like  a  bright  boy.  I  know  Mr. is  high 
ly  pleased  with  him.  He  spoke  of  getting 
four  dollars  a  week.  That's  a  good  deal  to 
give  to  a  mere  lad.  But,  I  suppose  I  might 
make  him  worth  that  to  me.  And  now  I 
begin  to  think  seriously  about  the  matter, 
I  believe  I  cannot  keep  a  clear  conscience 
and  any  longer  remain  indi  fie  rent  to  the 
welfare  of  my  old  friend's  widow  and  chil- 


I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT.  89 

dren.  I  must  look  after  them  a  little  more 
closely  than  I  have  heretofore  done." 

This  resolution  relieved  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Easy  a  good  deal. 

When  Hiram  left  the  counting-room  of 
the  merchant,  his  spirits  were  crushed  to 
the  very  earth.  He  found  his  way  back, 
how  he  hardly  knew,  to  his  place  of  busi 
ness,  and  mechanically  performed  the  tasks 
allotted  him  until  evening.  Then  he  re 
turned  home,  reluctant  to  meet  his  mother, 
and  yet  anxious  to  relieve  her  state  of  sus 
pense,  even  if  in  doing  so  he  should  dash 
a  last  hope  from  her  heart.  When  he 
came  in,  Mrs.  Mayberry  lifted  her  eyes  to  his 
inquiringly;  but  dropped  them  instantly — 
she  needed  no  words  to  tell  her  that  he 
had  suffered  a  bitter  disappointment. 

"You  did  not  get  the  place?"  she  at 
length  said,  with  forced  composure. 

"  No — it  was  taken  this  morning.  Mr. 
Easy  promised  to  see  about  it.  But  he 
didn't  do  sc.  When  he  wrent  this  after 
noon,  it  was  too  lite." 


90  I'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 

Hiram  said  this  with  a  trembling  voice 
and  lips  that  quivered. 

"  Thy  will  be  done !"  murmured  the 
widow,  lifting  her  eyes  upward.  "  If  these 
tender  ones  are  to  be  taken  from  their  mo 
ther's  fold,  oh !  do  thou  temper  for  them 
the  piercing  blast,  and  be  their  shelter 
amid  the  raging  tempests." 

A  tap  at  the  door  brought  back  the 
thoughts  of  Mrs.  May  berry.  A  brief  struggle 
with  her  feelings  enabled  her  to  overcome 
them  in  time  to  receive  a  visitor  with  com 
posure.  It  was  the  merchant. 

"  Mr.  Easy  !"  she  said  in  surprise. 

"  Mrs.  Mayberry,  how  do  you  do?"  There 
was  some  restraint  and  embarrassment  in 
his  manner.  He  was  conscious  of  having 
neglected  the  widow  of  his  friend,  before 
he  caine.  The  humble  condition  in  which 
lie  found  her  quickened  that  consciousness 
into  a  sting. 

"  I'm  sorry,  madam,"  he  said,  after  he  had 
become  seated  and  made  a  few  inquiries, 
"  that  I  did  not  get  the  place  for  your  son. 


91 


In  fact,  I  am  to  blame  in  the  matter.  But 
I  have  been  thinking  since  that  he  would 
suit  me  exactly,  and,  if  you  have  no  objec 
tions,  I  will  take  him  and  pay  him  a  salary 
of  two  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  year." 

Mrs.  Mayberry  tried  to  reply,  but  her 
feelings  were  too  much  excited  by  this 
sudden  and  unlooked-for  proposal  to  allow 
her  to  speak  for  some  moments.  Even 
then  her  assent  was  made  with  tears 
glistening  on  her  cheeks.  Arrangements 
were  quickly  made  for  the  transfer  of  Hi 
ram  from  the  store  where  he  had  been  en 
gaged,  to  the  counting-room  of  Mr.  Easy. 
The  salary  he  received  was  just  enough  to 
enable  Mrs.  Mayberry,  with  what  she  her 
self  earned,  to  keep  her  little  ones  together, 
until  Hiram,  who  proved  a  valuable  assist 
ant  in  Mr.  Easy's  business,  could  command 
a  larger  salary,  and  render  her  more  im 
portant  aid. 

m.— H 


A   GOOD   INVESTMENT. 


"  CHAT'S  a  smart  little  fellow  of  yours," 
said  a  gentleman  named  "Winslow  to 
a  labouring-man,  who  was  called  in,  occa 
sionally,  to  do  work  about  his  store.  "  Does 
he  go  to  school  ?" 

"  Not  now,  sir,"  replied  the  poor  man. 

"  Why  not,  Davis  ?  He  looks  like  a 
bright  lad." 

"  He's  got  good  parts,  sir,"  returned  the 
father,  "  but" 

"But  what?"  asked  the  gentleman,  see 
ing  that  the  man  hesitated. 

"  Times  are  rather  hard  now,  sir,  and  I 
have  a  large  family.  It's  about  as  much 
as  I  can  do  to  keep  hunger  and  cold  away. 


WOULD   YOU   LIKE  TO   GO   TO   SCHOOL   AGAIN. 

Page  9C 


A   GOOD    INVESTMENT.  95 

Ned  reads  very  well,  writes  a  tolerable  fair 
hand,  considering  all  things,  and  can  figure 
a  little.  And  that's  about  all  I  can  do  for 
him.  The  other  children  are  coming  for 
ward,  and  I  reckon  he  will  have  to  go  to  a 
trade  middling  soon." 

"How  old  is  Ned?"  inquired  Mr.  Wins- 


"  He's  turned  of  eleven." 

"You  won't  put  him  to  a  trade  before 
he's  thirteen  or  fourteen  ?" 

"  Can't  keep  him  at  home  idling  all  that 
time,  Mr.  Winslow.  It  would  be  his  ruin 
ation.  It's  young  to  go  out  from  home,  I 
know,  to  rough  it  and  tough  it  among 
strangers"  —  there  was  a  slight  unsteadiness 
in  the  poor  man's  voice  —  "but  it's  better 
than  doing  nothing." 

"  Ned  ought  to  go  to  school  a  year  or  two 
longer,  Davis,"  said  Mr.  Winslow,  with  some 
interest  in  his  manner.  "  And  as  you  are 
not  able  to  pay  the  quarter-bills,  I  guess  I 
will  have  to  do  it.  What  say  you  ?  If  I 
pay  for  Ned's  schooling,  can  you  keep 


96  A    GOOD    INVESTMENT. 

him  at  home  some  two  or  three  years 
longer  ?" 

"  I  didn't  expect  that  of  you,  Mr.  Wins- 
low,"  said  the  poor  man,  and  his  voice  now 
trembled.  He  uncovered  his  head  as  he 
spoke,  almost  reverently.  "  You  a'n't 
bound  to  pay  for  schooling  my  boy.  Ah, 
sir!" 

"  But  you  hav'n't  answered  my  question, 
Davis.  What  say  you  ?" 

"Oh  sir,  if  you  are  really  in  earnest?" 

"  I  am  in  earnest.  Ned  ought  to  go  to 
school.  If  you  can  keep  him  home  a  few 
years  longer,  I  will  pay  for  his  education 
during  the  time.  Ned" — Mr.  Winslow 
spoke  to  the  boy — "  what  say  you  ?  Would 
you  like  to  go  to  school  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  sir,"  quickly  answered  the 
boy,  while  his  bright  young  face  was  lit  up 
with  a  gleam  of  intelligence. 

"  Then  you  shall  go,  my  fine  fellow. 
There's  the  right  kind  of  stuff  in  you,  or 
I'm  mistaken.  We'll  give  you  a  trial,  at 
any  rate." 


A   GOOD    INVESTMENT.  97 


Mr.  Winslow  was  as  good  as  his  word- 
Ned  was  immediately  entered  at  an  excellent 
school.  The  boy,  young  as  he  was,  appre 
ciated  the  kind  act  of  his  benefactor,  and 
resolved  to  profit  by  it  to  the  full  extent. 

"  I  made  an  investment  of  ten  dollars  to 
day,"  said  Mr.  Winslow,  half-jestingly,  to  a 
mercantile  friend,  some  three  months  after 
the  occurrence  just  related  took  place,  "  and 
here's  the  certificate." 

He  held  up  a  small  slip  of  paper  as  he 
spoke. 

"Ten  dollars!  A  large  operation!  In 
what  fund  ?" 

"  A  charity  fund." 

"  Oh !"  And  the  friend  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "  Don't  do  much  in  that  way 
myself.  No  great  faith  in  the  security. 
What  dividend  do  you  expect  to  receive  ?" 

"  Don't  know.  Rather  think  it  will  be 
large." 

"  Better  take  some  more  of  the  stock,  if 
you  think  it  so  good.  There  is  plenty  in 
market  to  be  bought  at  less  than  par '' 


H2 


98  A    GOOD    INVESTMENT. 

Mr.  Winslow  smiled,  and  said  tliai  in  ail 
probability  he  would  invest  a  few  more 
small  sums  in  the  same  way,  and  see  how 
it  would  turn  out. 

The  little  piece  of  paper  which  he  plea 
santly  called  a  certificate  of  stock,  was  the 
first  quarter-bill  he  had  paid  for  Ned's 
schooling.  For  four  years  these  bills  were 
regularly  paid;  and  then  Ned,  who  had 
well  improved  the  opportunities  so  gene 
rously  afforded  him,  was  taken,  on  the  re 
commendation  of  Mr.  Winslow,  into  a  large 
importing  house.  He  was  at  the  time  in  his 
sixteenth  year.  Before  the  lad  could  en 
ter  upon  this  employment,  however,  Mr. 
Winslow  had  to  make  another  investment 
in  his  charity  fund.  Ned's  father  was  too 
poor  to  give  him  an  outfit  of  clothing  such 
as  was  required,  in  the  new  position  to 
which  he  was  to  be  elevated;  knowing  tlnV. 
the  generous  merchant  came  forward  again 
and  furnished  the  needful  supply. 

As  no  wages  were  received  by  Ned  lor 
<\he  first  twu  years.  Mr.  Wruslow  continued 


A   GOOD    INVESTMENT.  99 


to  buy  his  clothing,  while  his  father  still 
gave  him  his  board.  On  reaching  the  age 
of  eighteen,  Ned's  employers,  who  were 
much  pleased  with  his  industry,  intelli 
gence,  and  attention  to  business,  put  him 
on  a  salary  of  three  hundred  dollars.  This 
made  him  at  once  independent.  He  could 
pay  his  own  boarding  and  find  his  own 
clothes,  and  proud  did  he  feel  on  the  day 
when  advanced  to  so  desirable  a  position. 

"  How  comes  on  your  investment?"  asked 
Mr.  Winslow's  mercantile  friend  about  this 
time.  He  spoke  jestingly. 

"It  promises  very  well,"  was  the  smil 
ing  reply. 

"It  is  rising  in  the  market,  then?" 

"  Yes." 

"Any  dividends  yet?" 

"  Oh,  certainly.     Large  dividends." 

"  Ah !  You  surprise  me.  What  kind 
of  dividends  ?" 

"  More  than  a  hundred  per  cent." 

"  Indeed  !     Not  in  money  ?" 

"  Oh  no.     But  in  something  better  than 


A   GOOD   INVESTMENT. 

money.  The  satisfaction  that  flows  from 
an  act  of  benevolence  wisely  done/' 

"  Oh,  that's  all."  The  friend  spoke  with 
ill-concealed  contempt. 

"  Don't  you  call  that  something?"  asked 
Mr.  Win  slow. 

"  It's  entirely  too  unsubstantial  for  me," 
replied  the  other.  "  I  go  in  for  returns  of 
a  more  tangible  character.  Those  you 
speak  of  won't  pay  my  notes." 

Mr.  Winslow  smiled,  and  bade  his  friend 
good-morning. 

"  He  knows  nothing,"  said  he  to  himself, 
as  he  mused  on  the  subject,  "  of  the  plea 
sure  of  doing  good ;  and  the  loss  is  all  on 
his  side.  If  we  have  the  ability  to  secure 
investments  of  this  kind,  they  are  among 
the  best  we  can  make ;  and  all  are  able  to 
put  at  least  some  money  in  the  fund  of 
good  works,  let  it  be  ever  so  small  an 
amount.  Have  I  suffered  the  abridgment 
of  a  single  comfort  by  what  I  have  done  ? 
No.  Have  I  gained  in  pleasant  though  Id 
and  feelings  by  the  act?  Largely.  It  ha* 


A   GOOD    mVES'JMENtf.  101" 


been  a  source  of  perennial  enjoyment.  I 
would  not  have  believed  that,  at  so  small 
a  cost,  I  could  have  secured  so  much  plea 
sure.  And  how  great  the  good  that  may 
flow  from  what  I  have  done  !  Instead  of 
a  mere  day-labourer,  whose  work  in  the 
world  goes  not  beyond  the  handling  of 
boxes,  bales,  and  barrels,  or  the  manufac 
ture  of  some  article  in  common  use,  Ed 
ward  Davis,  advanced  by  education,  takes 
a  position  of  more  extended  usefulness,  and 
by  his  higher  ability  and  more  intelligent 
action  in  society,  will  be  able,  if  he  rightly 
use  the  power  in  his  hands,  to  advance  the 
world's  onward  movement  in  a  most  im 
portant  degree." 

Thus  thought  Mr.  Winslow,  and  his  heart 
grew  warm  within  him.  Time  proved  that 
he  had  not  erred  in  affording  the  lad  an 
opportunity  for  obtaining  a  good  education. 
His  quick  mind  acquired,  in  the  position 
in  which  he  was  placed,  accurate  ideas  of 
business,  and  industry  and  force  of  charac 
ter  made  these  ideas  thoroughly  practical, 


102  *   GOOD    INVESTMENT. 


Every  year  his  employers  advanced  hiw 
salary,  and,  on  attaining  his  majority,  it 
was  further  advanced  to  the  sum  of  one 
thousand  dollars  per  annum.  With  every 
increase  the  young  man  had  devoted  a 
larger  and  larger  proportion  of  his  income 
to  improving  the  condition  of  his  father's 
family,  and  when  it  was  raised  to  the  sum 
last  mentioned,  he  took  a  neat,  comfortable 
new  house,  much  larger  than  the  family 
had  before  lived  in,  and  paid  the  whole 
rent  himself.  Moreover,  through  his  ac 
quaintance  and  influence,  he  was  able  to 
get  a  place  for  his  father  at  lighter  em 
ployment  than  he  had  heretofore  been 
engaged  in,  and  at  a  higher  rate  of  compen 
sation. 

"Any  more  dividends  on  your  chanty 
investment?"  said  Mr.  Winslow's  friend, 
about  this  time.  He  spoke  with  the  old 
manner,  and  from  the  old  feelings. 

"Yes.  Got  a  dividend  to-day.  The 
largest  yet  received,"  replied  the  merchant, 
smiling. 


A   GOOD   INVESTMENT.  103 

"  Did  you  ?  Hope  it  does  you  a  great 
deal  of  good." 

"  I  realize  your  wish,  my  friend.  It  is 
doing  me  a  great  deal  of  good/'  returned 
Mr.  Winslow. 

"  No  cash,  I  presume  ?" 

"  Something  far  better.    Let  me  explain." 

"  Do  so,'  if  you  please." 

"  You  know  the  particulars  of  this  in 
vestment  ?"  said  Mr.  Winslow. 

His  friend  shook  his  head,  and  re 
plied — 

"  No.  The  fact  is,  I  never  felt  interest 
enough  in  the  matter  to  inquire  about  par 
ticulars." 

"  Oh,  well,  then,  I  must  give  you  a 
little  history. 

"  You  know  old  Davis,  who  has  been 
working  about  our  store  for  the  last  ten 
or  fifteen  years  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  My  investment  was  in  the  education 
of  his  son." 

"Indeed!" 


104  A   GOOD    INVESTMENT. 

"  His  father  took  him  from  school  when 
he  was  only  eleven  years  old,  because  he 
could  not  afford  to  send  him  any  longer, 
and  was  about  putting  the  little  fellow  out 
to  learn  a  trade.  Something  interested  me 
in  the  child,  who  was  a  bright  lad,  and  act 
ing  from  a  good  impulse  that  came  over 
me  at  the  moment,  I  proposed  to  his  father 
to  send  him  to  school  for  three  or  four  years, 
if  he  would  board  and  clothe  him  during 
the  time.  To  this  he  readily  agreed.  So 
I  paid  for  Ned's  schooling  until  he  was  in 
his  sixteenth  year,  and  then  got  him  into 
Webb  £  Waldron's  store,  where  he  has  been 


ever  since." 


"  Webb  &  Waldron's !"  said  the  friend, 
evincing  some  surprise.  "  I  know  all  their 
clerks  very  well,  for  we  do  a  great  deal  of 
business  with  them.  Which  is  the  son  of 
old  Mr.  Davis?" 

"  The  one  they  call  Edward." 

"  Not  that  tall,  fine-looking  young  man 
— their  leading  salesman?" 

"  The  s  ime." 


A  GOOD   INVESTMENT.  105 

"  Is  it  possible  !  Why,  he  is  worth  any 
two  clerks  in  the  store." 

"'*'  I  know  he  is." 

"  For  his  age,  there  is  not  a  better  sales 
man  in  the  city." 

"  So  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Winslow;  "nor," 
he  added,  "  a  better  man." 

"  I  know  little  of  his  personal  character; 
but,  unless  his  face  deceives  me,  it  cannot 
but  be  good." 

"  It  is  good.  Let  me  say  a  word  about 
him.  The  moment  his  salary  increased 
beyond  what  was  absolutely  required  to 
pay  his  board  and  find  such  clothing  as 
his  position  made  it  necessary  for  him  to 
wear,  he  devoted  the  entire  surplus  to 
rendering  his  father's  family  more  comfort 
able." 

"  Highly  praiseworthy,"  said  the  friend. 

"  I  had  received,  already,  many  divi 
dends  on  my  investment,"  continued  Mr. 
Winslow;  "but  when  that  fact  came  to 
my  knowledge,  my  dividend  exceeded  all 
the  other  dividends  put  together." 

III.— 7  III.— I 


106  A   GOOD   INVESTMENT. 


The  mercantile  friend  was  silent.  If 
ever  in  his  life  he  had  envied  the  reward 
of  a  good  deed,  it  was  at  that  moment. 

"To-day,"  went  on  Mr.  Winslow,  "I 
have  received  a  still  larger  dividend.  I 
was  passing  along  Buttonwood  street,  when 
I  met  old  Mr.  Davis  coming  out  of  a  house, 
the  rent  of  which,  from  its  appearance,  was 
not  less  than  two  hundred  and  twenty-five 
dollars.  '  You  don't  live  here,  of  course  ?' 
said  I,  for  I  knew  the  old  man's  income  to 
be  small — not  over  six  or  seven  dollars  a 
week.  ( Oh,  yes,  I  do/  he  made  answer, 
with  a  smile.  I  turned  and  looked  at  the 
house  again.  '  How  comes  this  ?'  I  asked. 
'  You  must  be  getting  better  off  in  the 
world.'  '  So  I  am,'  was  his  reply.  £  Has 
anybody  left  you  a  little  fortune?'  I  in 
quired.  '  No,  but  you  have  helped  me  to 
one/  said  he.  i  I  don't  understand  you, 
Mr.  Davis/  I  made  answer.  l  Edward 
rents  the  house  for  us/  said  the  old  man. 
'  Do  you  understand  now  ?' 

"I   understood  him  perfectly.     It   was 


A  GOOD   .INVESTMENT.  107 

then  that  I  received  the  largest  dividend 
on  -my  investment  which  had  yet  come  into 
my  hands.  If  they  go  on  increasing  at 
this  rate,  I  shall  soon  be  rich." 

"  Rather  unsubstantial  kind  of  riches/' 
was  remarked  by  the  friend. 

"  That  which  elevates  and  delights  the 
mind  can  hardly  be  called  unsubstantial," 
replied  Mr.  Winslow.  "  Gold  will  not  al 
ways  do  this." 

The  friend  sighed  involuntarily.  The 
remarks  of  Mr.  Winslow  caused  thoughts 
to  flit  over  his  mind  that  were  far  from 
being  agreeable. 

A  year  or  two  more  went  by,  and  then 
an  addition  was  made  to  the  firm  of  Webb 
&  Waldron.  Edward  Davis  received  the 
offer  of  an  interest  in  the  business,  which 
he  unhesitatingly  accepted.  From  that 
day  he  was  in  the  road  to  fortune.  Three 
years  afterward  one  of  the  partners  died, 
when  his  interest  was  increased. 

Twenty-five  years  from  the  time  Mr. 
Winslow,  acting  from  a  benevolent  impulse, 


108  A    GOOD   INVESTMENT. 

proposed  to  send  young  Davis  to  school, 
have  passed. 

One  day,  about  this  period,  Mr.  Winslow, 
who  had  met  with  a  number  of  reverses  in 
business,  was  sitting  in  his  counting-room, 
with  a  troubled  look  on  his  face,  when  the 
mercantile  friend  before-mentioned  came  in. 
His  countenance  was  pale  and  disturbed. 

"  We  are  ruined!  ruined!"  said  he,  with 
much  agitation. 

Mr.  Winslow  started  to  his  feet. 

"  Speak  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  What  new 
disaster  is  about  to  sweep  over  me  ?" 

"  The  house  of  Toledo  &  Co.,  in  Rio,  has 
suspended." 

Mr.  Winslow  struck  his  hands  together, 
and  sank  down  into  the  chair  from  which 
he  had  arisen. 

"  Then  it  is  all  over,"  he  murmured. 
"All  over!" 

"It  is  all  over  with  me,"  said  the  other. 
"  A  longer  struggle  would  be  fruitless. 
But  for  this,  I  might  have  weathered  the 
git»rm.  Twenty  thousand  dollars  of  drafts 


A   GOOD   INVESTMENT.  10S 


drawn  against  my  last  shipment  are  back 
protested,  and  will  be  presented  to-morrow. 
I  cannot  lift  them.  So  ends  this  matter. 
So  closes  a  business-life  'of  nearly  forty 
years,  in  commercial  dishonour  and  personal 
ruin !" 

"  Are  you-certain  that  they  have  failed?" 
asked  Mr.  Winslow,  with  something  like 
hope  in  his  tone  of  voice. 

"  It  is  too  true,"  was  answered.  "  The 
Celeste  arrived  this  morning,  and  her  letter- 
bag  was  delivered  at  the  post-office  half  an 
hour  ago.  Have  you  received  nothing  bv 
her?" 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  her  arrival.  But 
I  will  send  immediately  for  my  letters." 

Too  true  was  the  information  communi 
cated  by  the  friend.  The  large  commis 
sion-house  of  Toledo  &  Co.  had  failed,  and 
protested  drafts  had  been  returned  to  a 
very  heavy  amount.  Mr.  Winslow  was 
among  the  sufferers,  and  to  an  extent  that 
was  equivalent  to  ruin;  because  it  threw 
back  upon  him  the  necessity  of  lifting  over 


J10  A    GOOD    INVESTMENT. 

fifteen  thousand  dollars  of  protested  paper, 
when  his  line  of  payments  was  already  fully 
up  to  his  utmost  ability. 

For  nearly  five  years,  every  thing  had 
seemed  to  go  against  Mr.  Win  slow.  At 
the  beginning  of  that  period,  a  son,  whom 
he  had  set  up  in  business,  failed,  involving 
him  in  a  heavy  loss.  Then,  one  disaster 
after  another  followed,  until  he  found  him 
self  in  imminent  danger  of  failure.  From  this 
time  he  turned  his  mind  to  the  considera 
tion  of  his  affairs  with  more  earnestness 
than  ever,  and  made  every  transaction  with 
a  degree  of  prudence  and  foresight  that 
seemed  to  guarantee  success  in  whatever 
he  attempted.  A  deficient  supply  of  flour 
caused  him  to  venture  a  large  shipment  to 
Rio.  The  sale  was  at  a  handsomely  remu 
nerative  profit,  but  the  failure  of  his  con 
signees,  before  the  payment  of  his  drafts 
for  the  proceeds,  entirely  prostrated  him. 

So  hopeless  did  the  merchant  consider 
his  case,  that  he  did  not  even  make  an  effort 
to  get  tempoi  iry  aid  in  his  extremity. 


A   GOOD   INVESTMENT.  '  111 


When  the  friend  of  Mr.  Winslow  came 
with  the  information  that  the  house  of 
Toledo  &  Co.  had  failed,  the  latter  was 
searching  about  in  his  mind  for  the  means 
of  lifting  about  five  thousand  dollars'  worth 
of  paper,  which  fell  due  on  that  day.  He 
had  two  thousand  dollars  in  bank ;  the 
balance  of  the  sum  would  have  to  be  raised 
by  borrowing.  He  had  partly  fixed  upon 
the  resources  from  which  this  was  to  come, 
when  the  news  of  his  ill-fortune  arrived. 

Yes,  it  was  ruin.  Mr.  Winslow  saw  this 
in  a  moment,  and  his  hands  fell  powerless 
by  his  side.  He  made  no  further  effort  to 
lift  his  notes,  but,  after  his  mind  had  a 
little  recovered  from  its  first  shock,  he  left 
his  store  and  retired  to  his  home,  to  seek 
in  its  quiet  the  calmness  and  fortitude  of 
which  he  stood  so  greatly  in  need.  In  this 
home  were  his  wife  and  two  daughters,  who 
all  their  lives  had  enjoyed  the  many  exter 
nal  comforts  and  elegancies  that  wealth  can 
procure.  The  heart  of  the  father  ached  as 
his  eyes  rested  upon  his  children,  and  he 


112  A   GOOD   INVESTMENT, 

thought  of  the  sad  reverses  that  awaited 
them. 

On  entering  his  dwelling,  Mr.  Winslow 
sought  the  partner  of  his  life,  and  commu 
nicated  to  her  without  reserve  the  painful 
intelligence  of  his  approaching  failure. 

"Is  it  indeed  so  hopeless ?"  she  asked, 
tears  filling  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  utterly  prostrate  !"  was  the  reply, 
in  a  voice  that  was  full  of  anguish.  And 
in  the  bitterness  of  the  moment,  the  un 
fortunate  merchant  wrung  his  hands. 

To  Mrs.  Win  slow,  the  shock,  so  unex 
pected,  was  very  severe ;  and  it  was  some 
time  before  her  mind,  after  her  husband's 
announcement,  acquired  any  degree  of  calm 
ness.  ,-9 

About  half  an  hour  after  Mr.  Win  slew's 
return  home,  and  while  both  his  own  heart 
and  that  of  his  wife  were  quivering  with 
pain,  a  servant  came  and  said  that  a 
gentleman  had  called  and  wisl  ed  to  see 
him. 

"  Who  is  it?"  asked  the  merchant. 


A   GOOD   INVESTMENT.  113 

"  I  did  not  understand  his  name,"  replied 
the  servant. 

Mr.  Winslow  forced  as  much  external 
composure  as  was  possible,  and  then  de 
scended  to  the  parlour. 

"  Mr.  Davis/  he  said  on  entering. 

"  Mr.  Winslow,"  returned  the  visitor, 
taking  the  merchant's  hand  and  grasping 
it  warmly. 

As  the  two  men  sat  down  together,  the 
one  addressed  as  Mr.  Davis,  said — 

"  I  was  sorry  to  learn,  a  little  while  ago, 
that  you  will  lose  by  this  failure  in  Rio." 

"  Heavily.  It  has  ruined  me  !"  replied 
Mr.  Winslow. 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that  I  hope !"  said  Mr. 
Davis. 

"  Yes.  It  has  removed  the  last  prop  that 
I  leaned  on,  Mr.  Davis.  The  very  last  one, 
and  now  the  worst  must  come  to  the  worst. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  take  up  fifteen 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  returned  drafts." 

"  Fifteer  thousand  is  the  amount?" 

"  Yes." 


J14  A   GOOD    INVESTMENT. 

Mr.  Davis  smiled  encouragingly. 

"  If  that  is  all."  said  he,  "  there  is  no 
difficulty  in  the  way.  I  can  easily  get  you 
the  money." 

Mr.  Winslow  started,  and  a  warm  flush 
went  over  his  face. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  to  me,"  asked 
Mr.  Davis,  "  the  moment  you  found  your 
self  in  such  a  difficulty  ?  Surely  !"  and  his 
voice  slightly  trembled,  "  surely  you  did 
not  think  it  possible  for  me  to  forget  the 
past !  Do  not  I  owe  you  every  thing  ? — and 
would  I  not  be  one  of  the  basest  of  men,  if 
I  forgot  my  obligation  ?  If  your  need  were 
twice  fifteen  thousand,  and  it  required  the 
division  of  my  last  dollar  with  you,  not  a 
hair  of  your  head  should  be  injured.  I  did 
not  believe  it  was  possible  for  you  to  get 
into  an  extremity  like  this,  until  I  heard 
it  whispered  a  little  while  ago." 

So  unexpected  a  turn  in  his  affairs  com 
pletely  unmanned  Mr.  Winslow.  He  rover- 
ed  his  face  and  wept  for  some  time,  with 
the  uncontrollable  passion  of  a  child. 


A    GOOI'   INVESTMENT.  115 

"Ah!  sir,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  broken 
<Toice,  "  I  did  not  expect  this,  Mr.  Davis." 

."You  had  a  right  to  expect  it,"  replied 
the  young  man.  "  Were  I  to  do  less  than 
sustain  you  in  any  extremity  not  too  great 
for  my  ability,  I  would  be  unworthy  the 
name  of  a  man.  And  now,  Mr.  Win  slow, 
let  your  heart  be  at  rest.  You  need  not 
fall  under  this  blow.  Your  drafts  will  pro 
bably  come  back  to  you  to-morrow  T 

"  Yes.     To-morrow  at  the  latest." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  see  that  you  are 
provided  with  the  means  to  lift  them.  In 
the  mean  time,  if  you  are  in  want  of  any 
sums  toward  your  payments  of  to-day,  just 
let  me  know." 

"  I  can  probably  get  through  to-day  by 
my  own  efforts,"  said  Mr.  Winslow. 

"  Probably  ?  How  much  do  you  want?" 
asked  Mr.  Davis. 

"  In  the  neighbourhood  of  three  thousand 
dollars." 

"  I  will  send  you  around  a  check  for  that 
sum  immediately,"  promptly  returned  the 


116  A    MOD    INVESTMENT. 


young  man,  rising  as  he  spoke  and  drawing 
forth  his  watch. 

"  It  is  nearly  two  o'clock  now,"  he  added, 
"  so  I  will  bid  you  good  day.  In  fifteen 
minutes  you  will  find  a  check  at  your  store." 

And  with  this  Davis  retired. 

All  this,  which  passed  in  a  brief  space 
of  time,  seemed  like  a  dream  to  Mr.  Wins- 
low.  He  could  hardly  realize  its  truth. 
But  it  was  a  reality,  and  he  comprehended 
it  more  fully,  when,  on  reaching  his  store, 
he  found  there  the  promised  check  for  three 
thousand  dollars. 

On  the  next  day  the  protested  drafts 
came  in ;  but,  thanks  to  the  grateful  kind 
ness  of  Mr.  Davis,  now  a  merchant,  with  the 
command  of  large  money  facilities,  he  was 
able  to  take  them  up.  The  friend  before 
introduced  was  less  fortunate.  There  was 
no  one  to  step  forward  and  save  him  from 
ruin,  and  he  sank  under  the  sudden  pres 
sure  that  came  upon  him. 

A  few  days  after  his  failure  he  met  Mr 
Win  slow. 


A   GOOD    INVESTMENT.  117 

"  How  is  this  ?"  said  he.  "  How  did  you 
weather  the  storm  that  drove  me  under? 
I  thought  your  condition  as  hopeless  a,« 
mine  !" 

"So  did  I,"  answered  Mr.  Winslow. 
"  But  I  had  forgotten  a  small  investment 
made  years  ago.  I  have  spoken  of  it  to 
you  before." 

The  other  looked  slightly  puzzled. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  investment  in 
the  charity-fund,  which  you  thought  money 
thrown  away?" 

"  Oh  !"  Light  broke  in  upon  his  mind. 
"  You  educated  Davis.  I  remember  now!" 

"  And  Davis,  hearing  of  my  extremity, 
stepped  forward  and  saved  me.  That  was 
the  best  investment  I  ever  made !" 

The  friend  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  pave 
ment,  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  without 
speaking,  sighed,  and  then  moved  on.  How 
many  opportunities  for  making  similar  in 
vestments  had  he  not  neglected  1 
ni.— K 


BEAUTY. 


"  J>EAUTIFUL !"  exclaimed  Mary  Mar- 
vel,  with  a  toss  of  the  head  and  a 
slight  curl  of  her  cherry  lips.  "  There 
isn't  a  good  feature  in  her  face." 

"  And  yet,  I  think  her  beautiful/'  was 
the  calm  reply  of  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"  Why,  aunt !    Where  are  your  eyes  ?" 

"  Just  where  they  have  always  been,  my 
child !" 

"  Agnes  is  a  good  girl,"  said  Mary,  speak 
ing  in  a  less  confident  manner.  Every  one 
knows  this;  but,  as  to  being  handsome,  that 
is  altogether  another  thing." 

"  Is  there  not  a  beauty  in  goodness, 
Mary?"  asked  Mrs.  Hartley,  in  her  low, 
:[uiet  way,  as  she  looked,  with  her  calm, 


118 


DRESSING   FOR   THE   PARTY. 


121. 


BEAUTY.  121 


penetrating  eyes,  into  the  young  girl's 
face. 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course  there  is,  aunt.  But, 
beauty  of  goodness  is  one  thing,  and  beau 
ty  of  face  another." 

"  The  former  generally  makes  itself  vi 
sible  in  the  latter.  In  a  pure,  unselfish,  lov 
ing  heart  lives  the  very  spirit  of  beauty." 

"  Oh  yes,  aunt.  All  that  we  know.  But, 
let  the  spirit  be  ever  so  beautiful,  it  cannot 
re-mould  the  homely  countenance ;  the  ill- 
formed  mouth,  the  ugly  nose,  the  wedge- 
shaped  chin  must  remain  to  offend  the  eye 
of  taste." 

"  Do  you  think  Miss  Williams  very  home 
ly?"  asked  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"  She  is  deformed,  aunt." 

"Well!" 

"  She  has  no  personal  beauty  whatever." 

"  Do  you  think  of  this  when  you  are 
with  her?" 

"No.  But  when  I  first  saw  her,  she  so 
offended  my  eyes  that  I  could  hardly  re* 
main  in  the  room  where  she  was." 


122  BEAUTY. 


"  You  do  not  see  her  deformity  now." 

"  I  never  think  of  it." 

"The  spirit  of  beauty  in  her  heart  ha* 
thrown  a  veil  over  her  person." 

"  It  may  be  so,  aunt.  One  thing  is  cer 
tain,  I  love  her." 

"  More  than  you  do  Ellen  Lawson?" 

"  I  can't  bear  Ellen  Lawson !"  The  whole 
manner  of  the  young  girl  expressed  re 
pugnance. 

"  And  yet  Ellen,  by  common  consent,  is 
acknowledged  to  be  beautiful." 

"  She  is  pretty  enough;  but  I  don't  like 
her.  Proud,  vain,  ill-tempered.  Oh  dear ! 
these  spoil  every  thing." 

"  In  other  words,  the  deformity  of  her 
spirit  throws  a  veil  over  the  beauty  of  her 
person." 

"  Explain  it  as  you  will,  aunt.  Enough 
that  Ellen  Lawson  is  no  favourite  of  mine. 
Ever  as  I  gaze  into  her  brilliant  eyes,  a 
something  looks  out  of  them  that  causes  me 
to  shrink  from  her." 

The  conversation  between  Mary  Marvel 


BEAUTY.  123 

and  her  aunt  was  interrupted,  a:  this  point, 
by  the  entrance  of  a  visitor. 

Mary  was  passing  through  her  twentieth 
summer.  She  was  handsome;  and  she 
knew  it.  No  wonder,  then,  that  she  was 
vain  of  her  good  looks.  And  being  vain, 
no  wonder  that,  in  attiring  her  person,  she 
thought  less  of  maidenly  good  taste  than 
of  that  effect  which  quickly  attracts  the 
eye. 

She  had  beautiful  hair,  that  curled  natu 
rally,  and  so,  when  dressed  for  company,  a 
perfect  shower  of  glossy  ringlets  played 
ostentatiously  about  her  freely  exposed 
snowy  neck  and  shoulders,  causing  the  eyes 
of  many  to  rest  upon  and  follow  her,  whose 
eyes  a  modest  maiden  might  wish  to  be 
turned  away.  In  fact,  Mary's  attire,  which 
was  generally  a  little  in  excess,  so  set  off 
her  showy  person,  that  it  was  scarcely  pos 
sible  for  her  to  be  in  company  without  be 
coming  the  observed  of  all  observers,  and 
drawing  around  her  a  group  of  gay  young 
men,  ever  ready  to  offer  flattering  atten- 

III.— 8  K  2 


124  BEAUTY. 


tions  and  deal  in  flattering  words  where 
such  things  are  taken  in  the  place  of  truth 
and  sincerity. 

Such,  with  a  groundwork  of  good  sense, 
good  principles,  and  purity  of  character, 
was  Mary  Marvel. 

Some  few  days  after  the  conversation  with 
which  this  sketch  opens  occurred,  Mary 
was  engaged  in  dressing  for  an  evening 
party,  when  her  aunt  came  into  her  room. 

"  How  do  I  look,  aunt  ?"  inquired  Mary, 
who  had  nearly  completed  her  toilet. 

Mrs.  Hartley  shook  her  head  and  looked 
grave. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  aunt  ?  Am  I  over 
dressed,  as  you  say,  again  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  say,  under-dressed,"  re 
plied  the  aunt.  "  But  you  certainly  are 
not  going  in  this  style  ?" 

"  How  do  you  mean?"  And  Mary  threw 
a  glance  of  satisfaction  into  her  mirror. 

"  You  intend  wearing  your  lace-cape  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !" 

Mary's   neck    and   shoulders   were    too 


BEAUTY.  125 

beautiful  to  be  hidden  even  under  a  film 
of  gossamer. 

"  Nor  under-sleeves  ?" 

"  Why,  a.unt !     How  you  do  talk! " 

"  Where  are  your  combs  ?" 

Mary  tossed  her  head  until  every  free 
ringlet  danced  in  the  brilliant  light,  and 
fluttered  around  her  spotless  neck  and 
bosom. 

"  Ah,  child!"  sighed  Mrs.  Hartley  ;  "this 
is  all  an  error,  depend  upon  it.  Attire 
Like  yours  never  won  for  any  maiden  that 
respect  for  which  the  heart  has  reason  to 
be  proud." 

"  Oh,  aunt !  Why  will  you  talk  so  ?  Do 
you  really  think  I  am  so  weak  as  to  dress 
with  the  mere  end  of  attracting  attention  ? 
You  pay  me  a  poor  compliment !" 

"  Then  why  do  you  dress  in  a  manner 
so  unbecoming?" 

"  I  think  it  very  becoming !"  And  Mary 
threw  her  eyes  again  upon  the  mirror. 

"  Time,  I  trust,  will  correct  your  error," 
said  Mrs.  Hartley,  speaking  partly  to  her- 


126  BEAUTY. 

self;  for  experience  had  taught  her  how 
futile  it  was  to  attempt  to  influence  her 
niece  in  a  matter  like  this. 

And  so,  in  her  "  undress,"  as  Mrs.  Hart 
ley  made  free  to  call  her  scanty  garments, 
Mary  went  to  spend  the  evening  in  a 
fashionable  company,  her  head  filled  with 
the  vain  notion  that  she  would,  on  that 
occasion,  at  least,  carry  off  the  palm  of 
beauty.  And  something  more  than  simple 
vanity  was  stirring  in  her  heart.  There 
wras  to  be  a  guest  at  the  party  in  whose 
eyes  she  especially  desired  to  appear  lovely 
— and  that  was  a  young  man  named  Per- 
cival,  whom  she  had  met  a  few  times,  and 
who  was  just  such  a  one  as  a  maiden  might 
well  wish  to  draw  to  her  side.  At  a  recent 
meeting,  Percival  had  shown  Mary  more 
than  ordinary  attentions.  In  fact,  the 
beauty  of  her  person  and  graces  of  her 
mind  had  made  upon  his  feelings  more 
than  a  passing  impression. 

On  entering  the  rooms,  where  a  large 
portion  of  the  company  were  already  as- 


BEAUTY.  127 

sembled,  Mary  produced,  as  she  had  ex 
pected  and  desired,  some  little  sensation, 
and  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  gay 
young  men.  Among  these,  however,  she  met 
not  Percival.  It  was,  perhaps,  half  an 
hour  subsequent  to  her  arrival,  that  Mary's 
eyes  rested  on  the  form  of  him  she  had 
been  looking  for  ever  since  her  entrance. 
He  was  standing,  alone,  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  room,  and  was  evidently  regarding 
her  with  fixed  attention.  She  blushed,  and 
her  heart  beat  quicker  as  she  discovered  this. 
Almost  instantly  a  group  of  young  persons 
came  between  her  and  Percival,  and  she 
did  not  see  him  again  for  some  twenty  mi 
nutes.  Then  he  was  sitting  by  the  side  of 
Agnes  Gray,  the  young  lady  to  whom  her 
aunt  referred  as  being  beautiful,  and  whom 
she  regarded  with  very  different  ideas. 
Agnes  wore  a  plainly  made  sprigged  muslin 
dress,  that  fitted  close  to  the  neck;  her 
beautiful  hair  was  neatly  but  not  showily 
arranged,  and  had  a  single  ornament,  which 
was  not  conspicuous. 


128  BEAUTY. 

For  the  first  time,  an  impression  of  beauty 
in  Agnes  affected  the  mind  of  Miss  Marvel. 
She  had  been  listening  to  something  said 
by  Mr.  Percival,  and  was  just  in  the  act  of 
replying,  when  Mary's  eyes  rested  upon 
her;  and  then  the  inward  beauty  of  her 
pure  spirit  so  filled  every  feature  of  her 
face  that  she  looked  the  very  impersonation 
of  loveliness.  A  sigh  heaved  the  bosom  of 
Mary  Marvel,  and,  from  that  moment,  her 
proud  self-satisfaction  vanished. 

An  hour  passed,  and  yet  Percival  did 
not  seek  her  in  the  crowd,  though,  during 
that  time,  he  had  danced  not  only  with 
Agnes  Gray,  but  with  one  or  two  others. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  evening, 
and  Mary,  dispirited  and  weary,  was  sitting 
near  one  of  the  doors  that  opened  from  the 
drawing-room,  when  she  heard  her  name 
mentioned  in  an  undertone  by  a  person 
standing  in  the  hall.  She  listened  involun 
tarily.  The  remark  was — 

"  I  hardly  know  whether  to  pronounce 
Miss  Marvel  beautiful  or  not." 


BEAUTY.  129 


The  person  answering  this  remark  was 
Percival ;  and  his  words  were — 

"  I  once  thought  her  beautiful.  But  that 
was  before  I  met  one  more  truly  beauti 
ful." 

"  Ah !  Who  has  carried  off  the  palm 
in  your  eyes  ?" 

"  You  have  seen  Agnes  Gray?" 

"  Oh  yes.  But  she  is  not  so  handsome 
as  Miss  Marvel." 

"  She  has  not  such  regular  features ;  but 
the  more  beautiful  spirit  within  shines 
forth  so  radiantly  as  to  throw  around  her 
person  the  very  atmosphere  of  beauty.  So 
artless,  so  pure,  so  innocent !  To  me,  she  is 
the  realization  of  my  best  dreams  of  maiden 
loveliness." 

"Miss  Marvel,"  remarked  the  other, 
"  spoils  every  thing  by  her  vanity  and  love 
of  display.  She  dresses  in  shocking  bad 
taste." 

"  Shocking  to  me !"  said  Percival.  "  Real 
ly,  her  arms,  neck,  and  bosom,  to-night, 
are  so  much  exposed  that  I  cannot  go  near 


130  BEAUTY. 

her.  I  would  almost  blush  to  look  into  her 
face ;  and  yet,  I  respect  and  esteem  her 
highly.  Pity,  that  personal  vanity  should 
spoil  one  who  has  so  many  good  qualities 
— so  much  to  win  our  love  and  admira 
tion." 

The  young  men  moved  away,  and  Mary 
heard  no  more.  Enough,  however,  had 
reached  her  ears  to  overwhelm  her  with 
pain  and  mortification.  She  soon  after  re 
tired  from  the  company.  The  rest  of  the 
night  was  spent  in  weeping. 

The  lesson  was  severe,  but  salutary. 
When  Percival  next  met  Mary  Marvel,  her 
dress  and  manners  were  much  more  to  his 
taste ;  but  she  had  changed  too  late  to  win 
him  to  her  side,  for  his  heart  now  wor 
shipped  at  another  shrine. 


THE  KNIGHT,  THE  HEEMIT, 
AND  THE  MAN. 


THE   KNIGHT. 

C IR  GUY  DE  MONTFORT  was  as  brave 
a  knight  as  ever  laid  lance  in  rest  or 
swung  his  glittering  battle-axe.  He  pos 
sessed  many  noble  and  generous  qualities, 
but  they  were  obscured,  alas !  by  the  strange 
thirst  for  human  blood  that  marked  the 
age  in  which  he  lived — an  age  when  "  Love 
your  friends  and  hate  your  enemies"  had 
taken  the  place  of  "  But  I  say  unto  you, 
love  your  enemies;  bless  them  that  curse 
you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you,  and 
pray  for  them  which  despiteful ly  use  you 
and  persecute  you." 

III.-L  131 


132  THE   KNIGHT,  THE   HERMIT, 


Ten  knights  as  brave  as  Sir  Guy,  and 
possessing  as  many  noble  and  generous 
•qualities,  had  fallen  beneath  his  superior 
strength  and  skill  in  arms;  and  for  this,  the 
bright  eyes  of  beauty  looked  admiringly 
upon  him — fair  lips  smiled  when  he  ap 
peared,  and  minstrels  sang  of  his  prowess, 
in  lady's  bower  and  festive  hall. 

At  a  great  tournament  given  in  honour 
of  the  marriage  of  the  king's  daughter,  Sir 
Guy  sent  forth  his  challenge  to  single  and 
deadly  combat ;  but,  for  two  days,  no  one 
accepted  this  challenge,  although  it  was 
three  times  proclaimed  by  the  herald.  On 
the  third  day,  a  young  and  strange  knight 
rode,  with  vizor  down,  into  the  lists,  and 
accepted  the  challenge.  His  slender  form, 
his  carriage,  and  all  that  appertained  to 
him,  showed  him  to  be  no  match  for  Guy 
de  Montfort — and  so  it  proved.  They  met 
— and  Sir  Guy's  lance,  at  the  first  tilt,  pe 
netrated  the  corslet  of  the  brave  young 
knight  and  entered  his  heart.  As  he  rolled 
upon  the  ground,  his  casque  Hew  off,  and 


AND    THE    MAN. 


a  shower  of  sunny  curls  fell  ever  his  fair 
young  face  and  neck. 

Soon  the  strange  news  went  thrilling 
from  heart  to  heart,  that  the  youthful 
knight  who  had  kissed  the  dust  beneath  the- 
sharp  steel  of  De  Montfort,  was  a  maiden  I 
and  none  other  than  the  beautiful,  high- 
spirited  Agnes  St.  Bertrand,  whose  father 
Sir  Guy  had  killed,  hut  a  few  months  be 
fore,  in  a  combat  to  which  he  had  chal 
lenged  him. 

By  order  of  the  king  the  tournament 
was  suspended,  and  rampant  knights  and 
ladies  gay  went  back  to  their  homes,  in 
soberer  mood  than  when  they  came  forth. 

Alone  in  his  castle,  with  the  grim  faces 
of  his  ancestors  looking  down  upon  him 
from  the  wall,  Sir  Guy  paced  to  and  fro 
with  hurried  steps.  The  Angel  of  Mercy 
was  nearer  to  him  than  she  had  been  for 
years,  and  her  whispers  were  distinctly 
heard.  Glory  and  fame  were  forgotten  by 
the  knight — for  self  was  forgotten.  The 
question — a  strange  question  for  him-*- 


134  THE    KNIGHT, 

'*  What  good  ?"  arose  in  his  mind.  He  had 
idlled  St.  Bert-rand — but  why  ?  To  add  an 
other  leaf  to  his  laurels  as  a  brave  knight. 
But  was  this  leaf  worth  its  cost — the 
broken  heart  of  the  fairest  and  loveliest 
maiden  in  the  land  ?  nay,  more — the  life- 
drops  from  that  broken  heart  ? 

For  the  first  time  the  flush  of  triumph 
was  chilled  by  a  remembrance  of  what  the 
triumph  had  cost  him.  Then  came  a  shud 
der,  as  he  thought  of  the  lovely  widow  who 
drooped  in  Arto  Castle — of  the  wild  pang 
that  snapped  the  heartstrings  of  DeCres- 
sy's  bride,  when  she  saw  the  battle-axe  go 
crashing  into  her  husband's  brain — of  the 
beautiful  betrothed  of  Sir  Gilbert  de  Ma 
rion,  now  a  shrieking  maniac — of  Agnes 
St.  Bertrand ! 

As  these  sad  images  came  up  before  the 
Knight,  his  pace  grew  more  rapid,  and  his 
brows,  upon  which  large  beads  of  sweat 
were  standing,  were  clasped  between  his 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  agony. 

"  And  what  for  all  this  ?"  he  murmured, 


AND   THE   MAX.  135 

"  What  for  all  this  ?   Am  I  braver  31  better 
for  such  bloody  work  ?" 

Through  the  long  night  he  paced  the 
hall  of  his  castle;  but  with  daydawn  he 
rode  forth  alone.  The  sun  arose  and  set; 
the  seasons  came  and  went ;  years  passed ; 
but  the  knight  returned  not. 


THE    HERMIT. 

Far  from  the  busy  scenes  of  life  dwelt  a 
pious  recluse,  who,  in  prayer,  fasting,  and 
various  forms  of  penance,  sought  to  find 
repose  for  his  troubled  conscience.  His 
food  was  pulse,  and  his  drink  the  pure 
water  that  went  sparkling  in  the  sunlight 
past  his  hermit-cell  in  the  wilderness. 
Now  and  then  a  traveller  who  had  lost  his 
way,  or  an  eager  hunter  in  pursuit  of  game, 
met  this  lonely  man  in  his  deep  seclusion. 
To  such  he  spoke  eloquently  of  the  vani 
ties  of  life  and  of  the  wisdom  of  those  who, 
renouncing  these  vanities,  devote  them- 

L2 


136  THE   KXIGIIT,    THE    HERMIT, 

selves  to  God;  and  they  left  him,  believing 
the  hermit  to  be  a  wise  and  happy  man. 

But  they  erred.  Neither  prayer  nor  pe 
nance  filled  the  aching  void  that  was  in 
his  bosom.  If  he  were  happy,  it  was  a 
happiness  for  which  none  need  have  felt 
an  envious  wish ;  if  he  were  wise,  his  wis 
dom  partook  more  of  the  selfishness  of  this 
world  than  of  the  holy  benevolence  of  the 
next. 

The  days  came  and  went;  the  seasons 
changed ;  years  passed ;  and  still  the  her 
mit's  prayers  went  up  at  morning,  and  the 
setting  sun  looked  upon  his  kneeling  form. 
His  body  was  bent,  though  not  with  age ; 
his  long  hair  whitened,  but  not  with  the 
snows  of  many  winters.  Yet  all  availed 
not.  The  solitary  one  found  not  in  prayer 
and  penance  that  peace  which  passeth  all 
understanding. 

One  night  he  dreamed  in  his  cell  that 
the  Angel  of  Mercy  came  to  him,  and  said : 

"  It  is  in  vain — all  in  vain  !  Art  thou 
not  a  man,  to  whom  power  has  been  given 


AND    THE   MAN.  137 


to  do  good  to  thy  fellow-man  ?  Is  the  bird 
on  the  tree,  the  beast  in  his  lair,  the  worm 
that  crawls  upon  the  earth,  thy  fellow? 
Not  by  prayer,  not  by  meditation,  not  by 
penance,  is  man  purified ;  not  for  these  are 
his  iniquities  washed  out.  '  Well  done, 
good  and  faithful  servant/  These  are  the 
divine  words  thou  hast  not  yet  learned. 
Thou  callest  thyself  God's  servant;  but 
where  is  thy  work  ?  I  see  it  not.  Where 
are  the  hungry  thou  hast  fed  ? — the  naked 
thou  hast  clothed  ? — the  sick  and  the  pri 
soner  who  have  been  visited  by  thee? 
They  are  not  here  in  the  wilderness !" 

The  angel  departed,  and  the  hermit 
awoke.  It  was  midnight.  From  the  bend 
ing  heavens  beamed  down  myriads  of 
beautiful  stars.  The  dark  and  solemn 
woods  were  still  as  death,  and  there  was 
no  sound  on  the  air  save  the  clear  music 
of  the  singing  rill,  as  it  went  on  happily 
with  its  work,  even  in  the  darkness. 

"  Where  is  my  work  ?"  murmured  the 
hermit,  as  he  stood  with  his  hot  brow  un- 


138  THE    KNIGHT,    1EIE    HERMIT, 

covered  in  the  cool  air.  "  The  stars  are 
moving  in  their  courses ;  the  trees  are 
spreading  forth  their  branches  and  rising  to 
heaven ;  and  the  stream  flows  on  to  the 
ocean ;  but  I,  superior  to  all  these — I, 
gifted  with  a  will,  an  understanding,  and 
active  energies — am  doing  no  work !  '  Well 
done,  good  and  faithful  servant.'  Those 
blessed  words  cannot  be  said  of  me." 

Morning  came,  and  the  hermit  saw  the 
bee  at  its  labour,  the  bird  building  its  nest, 
and  the  worm  spinning  its  silken  thread. 

"  And  is  there  no  work  for  me,  the 
noblest  of  all  created  things  ?"  said  he. 

The  hermit  knelt  in  prayer,  but  found 
no  utterance.  Where  was  his  work  ?  He 
had  none  to  bring  but  evil  work.  He  had 
li  armed  his  fellow  men — but  where  was 
the  good  he  had  done  ?  Prayers  and  peni 
tential  deeds  wiped  away  no  tear  from 
the  eye  of  sorrow — fed  not  the  hungry — 
clothed  not  the  naked. 

"  De  Montfort ! — it  is  vain  !  there  must 
be  charity  as  well  as  piety !" 


AND    THE    MAN.  139 


Thus  murmured  the  hermit,  as  he  arose 
from  his  prostrate  attitude. 

When  night  came,  the  hermit's  cell,  far 
away  in  the  deep,  untrodden  forest,  was 
tenantless. 


THE    MAN. 

A  fearful  plague  raged  in  a  great  city. 
In  the  narrow  streets  where  the  poor  were 
crowded  together,  the  hot  breath  of  the 
pestilence  withered  up  hundreds  in  a  day. 
Those  not  striken  down,  fled,  and  left  the 
suffering  and  the  dying  to  their  fate.  Ter 
ror  extinguished  all  human  sympathies. 

In  the  midst  of  these  dreadful  scenes,  a 
man  clad  in  plain  garments — a  stranger — 
approached  the  plague-stricken  city.  The 
flying  inhabitants  warned  him  of  the  peril 
he  was  about  encountering,  but  he  heeded 
them  not.  He  entered  within  the  walls, 
and  took  his  way  with  a  firm  step  to  the 
most  infected  regions. 

III.— 9 


140  THE  KNIGHT,  THE    HERMIT, 


In  the  first  house  that  he  entered  lie 
found  a  young  maiden  alone  and  almost  in 
the  agonies  of  death ;  and  her  feeble  cry 
was  for  something  to  slake  her  burning 
thirst.  He  placed  to  her  lips  a  cool 
draught,  of  which  she  drank  eagerly ;  then 
he  sat  down  to  watch  by  her  side.  In  a 
little  while  the  hot  fever  began  to  abate,  and 
the  sufferer  slept.  Then  he  lifted  her  in  his 
arms  and  bore  her  beyond  the  city  walls, 
where  the  air  was  purer  and  where  were 
those  appointed  to  receive  and  minister  to 
the  sick  who  were  brought  forth. 

Again  he  went  into  the  deadly  atmo 
sphere  and  among  the  sick  and  the  dying ; 
and  soon  he  returned  once  more  with  a 
sleeping  infant  that  he  had  removed  from 
the  infolding  arms  of  its  dead  mother. 
There  was  a  calm  and  holy  smile  upon  the 
stranger's  lips  as  he  looked  into  the  sweet 
face  of  the  innocent  child  ere  he  resigned 
it  to  others ;  and  those  who  saw  that  smile 
said  in  their  hearts — "  Verily,  he  hath  his 
reward." 


AND    THE    MAN.  141 


For  weeks  the  plague  hovered,  with  its 
black  wings,  over  that  devoted  city — and 
during  the  whole  time,  this  stranger  to  all 
the  inhabitants  passed  from  house  to  house, 
supporting  a  dying  head  here,  giving  drink 
to  such  as  were  almost  mad  with  thirst 
there,  and  bearing  forth  in  his  arms  those 
for  whom  there  was  any  hope  of  life.  But 
when  "the  pestilence  that  walketh  in 
darkness  and  wasteth  at  noonday"  had  left 
the  city,  he  was  no  where  to  be  found. 


For  years  the  castle  of  De  Montfort  was 
without  a  lord.  Its  knightly  owner  had 
departed,  though  to  what  far  country  no 
one  knew.  At  last  he  returned — not  on 
mailed  charger,  with  corslet,  casque,  and 
spear — a  boastful  knight,  with  hands  crim 
soned  by  his  brother's  blood, — nor  as  a 
pious  devotee  from  his  cloister;  but,  as  a 
man,  from  the  city  where  he  had  done  good 
deeds  amid  the  dying  and  the  dead.  He 
came  to  take  possesion  of  his  stately  castle 


142   THE  KNIGHT — THE  HERMIT — THE  MAN. 

and  his  broad  lands  once  more — not  as  a 
knight,  but  as  a  man — not  to  glory  once 
more  in  his  proud  elevation,  but  to  use  the 
gifts  with  which  God  had  endowed  him, 
in  making  wiser,  better,  and  happier  his 
fellow-men. 

He  had  work  to  do,  and  he  was  faithful 
in  its  performance.  He  was  no  longer  a 
knight-errant^  seeking  for  adventure  wher 
ever  brute  courage  promised  to  give  him 
renown  ;  he  was  no  longer  an  idle  hermit, 
shrinking  from  his  work  in  the  great  har 
vest-fields  of  life ;  but  he  was  a  man,  doing 
valiantly,  among  his  fellow-men,  truly  noble 
deeds — not  deeds  of  blood,  but  deeds  of 
moral  daring,  in  an  age  when  the  real  uses 
of  life  were  despised  by  the  titled  few. 

There  was  the  bold  Knight,  the  pious 
Hermit,  and  the  Man;  but  the  MAN  waa 
best  and  greatest  of  all. 


THE   MERCHANT'S  DREAM 


A  LGERON  was  a  merchant.  All  through 
"^^  a  long  summer  day  he  had  been  en 
gaged  among  boxes,  bales,  and  packages; 
or  poring  over  accounts  current;  or  musing 
over  new  adventures.  When  night  came 
he  retired  to  his  quiet  chamber  and  re 
freshed  his  wearied  mind  with  music  and 
books.  Poetry,  and  the  harmony  of  sweet 
sounds,  elevated  his  sentiments,  and  caused 
him  to  think,  as  he  had  often  before  thought, 
of  the  emptiness  and  vanity  of  mere  earth 
ly  pursuits. 

"  In  what,"  said  he,  "  am  1  wasting  my 
time  ?  Is  there  any  thing  in  the  dull  round 
of  mercantile .  life  to  satisfy  an  immortal 
spirit  ?  What  true  congeniality  is  there 

HE.— M  143 


144  THE  MERCHANT'S  DREAM. 

between  the  highly  gifted  soul  and  bales 
of  cotton  jr  pieces  of  silk?  Between  the 
human  mind  and  the  dull,  insensible  ob 
jects  of  trade  ?  Nothing !  Nothing !  How 
sadly  do  we  waste  our  lives  in  the  mere 
pursuit  of  gold!  And  after  the  glittering 
earth  is  gained,  are  we  any  happier?  I 
think  not.  The  lover  of  truth — the  wise, 
contemplative  hermit  in  his  cell  is  more  a 
man  than  Algeron !" 

Thus  mused  the  merchant,  and  thus  he 
gave  utterance  to  his  thoughts — sighing  as 
he  closed  each  sentence.  The  book  that 
he  loved  was  put  aside — the  instrument 
from  which  his  skilful  hand  drew  eloquent 
music  lay  hushed  upon  a  table.  He  was 
unhappy.  He  had  remained  thus  for  some 
time,  when  the  door  of  his  room  opened, 
and  a  beautiful  being  entered  and  stood  be 
fore  him.  Her  countenance  was  calm  and 
elevated,  yet  full  of  sweet  benevolence. 
For  a  moment  she  looked  at  the  unhappy 
merchant,  then  extending  her  hand,  she 
said — 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DREAM.  145 


"  Algeron,  I  have  heard  your  complaints. 
Come  with  me,  and  look  around  with  a 
broader  intelligence." 

As  she  spoke,  she  laid  her  finger  upon 
the  eyes  of  the  young  man.  Arising,  he 
found  himself  in  the  open  air,  walking  by 
the  side  of  his  strange  conductor,  along  a 
path  that  led  to  a  small  cottage.  Into  this 
they  entered.  It  was  a  very  humble  abode 
— but  peace  and  contentment  were  dwellers 
in  the  breasts  of  its  simple-minded  occupants 
— an  aged  female  and  a  little  girl.  Both 
were  engaged  with  reels  of  a  curious  and 
somewhat  complicated  construction;  and 
both  sang  cheerily  at  their  work.  A  basin 
of  cocoons  on  the  floor  by  each  of  the 
reels,  told  Algeron  the  true  nature  of  their 
employment.  A  small  basket  of  fine  and 
smoothly  reeled  spools  were  upon  a  table. 
While  the  merchant  still  looked  on,  a  man 
entered,  and  after  bargaining  for  the  reeled 
silk,  paid  down  the  price,  and  carried  it 
away.  A  few  minutes  after,  the  owner  of 
the  cottage  came  in.  He  asked  for  his  rent, 


146  THE  MERCHANT'S  DREAM. 

and  it  was  given  to  him.  Then  he  retired. 
Shortly  after,  a  dealer  in  provisions  stopped 
at  the  humble  dwelling,  and  liberally  sup 
plied  the  wants  of  its  occupants.  He  re 
ceived  his  pay,  and  drove  off,  singing  gay- 
ly,  while  the  old  woman  and  the  child 
looked  contented  and  happy. 

"  Come,"  said  his  conductor,  and  Algeron 
left  the  cottage.  The  scene  had  changed. 
He  was  no  longer  in  the  open  country,  but 
surrounded  by  small  houses.  It  was  a 
village.  Along  the  streets  of  this  they 
walked  for  some  time,  until  they  came  to  a 
store,  which  they  entered.  Standing  be 
side  the  counter  was  the  same  man  who 
had  bought  the  cottagers'  silk.  He  had 
many  parcels,  which  he  had  collected  from 
many  cottages ;  and  now  he  was  passing 
them  over  to  the  storekeeper,  who  was  as 
ready  to  buy  as  he  was  to  sell. 

"  Another  link  in  the  great  chain,"  re 
marked  the  mysterious  companion  signifi 
cantly.  "  See  how  they  depend  the  one 
upon  the  other.  Can  the  hermit  in  his 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DREAM.  147 

cell,  idly  musing  about  truths  that  will  not 
abide — for  truth  is  active ;  is  in  fact  the 
power  by  which  good  is  done  to  our  fellows, 
and  will  not  remain  with  any  one  who  does 
not  use  it — thus  serve  his  fellows?  Is  his 
life  more  excellent,  more  honourable,  more 
in  accordance  with  the  high  endowments  of 
the  soul,  than  the  life  of  him  who  engages 
in  those  employments  by  which  all  are 
benefited?" 

Algeron  felt  that  new  light  was  breaking 
in  upon  him.  But,  as  yet,  he  saw  dimly. 

"  Look  up,"  continued  his  companion, 
"  and  see  yet  another  link." 

The  merchant  raised  his  eyes.  The 
scene  had  again  changed.  The  village  had 
become  a  large  town,  with  ranges  of  tall 
buildings,  in  which  busy  hands  threw  the 
shuttle,  weaving  into  beautiful  fabrics  of 
various  patterns  the  humble  fibres  ga 
thered  from  hundreds  of  cottages,  farm 
houses,  and  cocooneries,  in  all  the  region 
roundabout.  Through  these  he  wandered 
with  his  guide.  Here  was  one  tending  a 


148  THE  MERCHANT'S  DKEAM. 

loom,  there  another  folding,  arranging,  or 
packing  into  cases  the  products  thereof; 
and  at  the  head  of  all  was  the  manufac 
turer  himself. 

"  Is  his  a  useless  life  ?"  asked  the  guide. 
"  Is  he  wasting  the  high  endowments  of  an 

c  o 

immortal  mind  in  thus  devoting  himself  to 
the  office  of  gathering  in  the  raw  material 
and  reproducing  it  again  as  an  article  of 
comfort  and  luxury  ?  But  see  !  Another 
has  presented  himself.  It  is  the  merchant. 
He  has  come  to  receive  from  this  man  the 
products  of  his  looms,  and  send  them  over 
the  world,  that  all  may  receive  and  enjoy 
them.  Are  his  energies  wasted  ?  No,  Al- 
geron !  If  the  merchant  were  not  to  en 
gage  in  trade,  the  manufacturer  could  not 
get  his  goods  to  market,  and  would  no 
longer  afford  the  means  of  subsistence  that 
he  now  does  to  hundreds  and  thousands 
who  produce  the  raw  material.  Without 
him,  millions  who  receive  the  blessings  fur 
nished  by  nature  and  art  in  places  remote 
from  their  city  or  count ry,  would  be  de- 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DREAM.  149 


prived  of  many  comforts,  of  many  delights. 
The  agriculturalist,  the  manufacturer,  the 
merchant,  the  artisan — all  who  are  en 
gaged  in  the  various  callings  that  minister 
to  the  wants,  the  comforts,  and  the  luxu 
ries  of  life,  are  honourably  employed.  So 
ciety,  in  all  its  paHs,  is  held  together  by 
mutual  interests.  A  chain  of  dependencies 
binds  the  whole  world  together.  Sever  a 
single  link,  and  you  affect  the  whole. 
Look  below  you.  As  a  merchant,  your  po 
sition  is  intermediate  between  the  producer 
and  the  consumer.  See  how  many  hun 
dreds  are  blessed  with  the  reception  of  na 
ture's  rich  benefits  through  your  means. 
Could  this  take  place,  if  you  sought  only 
after  abstract  truth,  in  idle,  dreamy  mus 
ings?  Cease,  then,  to  chafe  yourself  by 
fallacious  reasonings.  Rather  learn  to  feel 
delight  in  the  consciousness  that  you  are 
the  means  of  diffusing  around  you  many 
blessings.  Think  not  of  the  gold  you  are 
to  gain,  as  the  end  of  your  activity ;  for  so 
far  as  yov  do  this,  you  will  lose  the  true 


150  THE  MERCHANT'S  DREAM. 

benefits  that  may  be  derived  from  pursuing 
with  diligence  your  calling  in  life — that  for 
which  by  education  you  are  best  qualified 
— and  into  which  your  inclination  leads 
you." 

"I  see  it  all  now,  clear  as  a  sunbeam," 
Algeron  said,  with  a  sudden  enthusiasm, 
as  light  broke  strongly  into  his  mind.  The 
sound  of  his  own  voice  startled  him  with 
its  strangeness.  For  a  moment  he  seemed 
the  centre  of  a  whirling  sphere.  Then  all 
grew  calm,  and  he  found  himself  sitting 
alone  in  his  chamber. 

"  Can  all  this  have  been  but  a  dream  ?" 
he  murmured,  thoughtfully.  No — no — it 
is  more  than  a  dream,  I  have  not  been 
taught  by  a  mere  phantom  of  the  imagina 
tion,  but  by  Truth  herself— beautiful  Truth. 
Her  lovely  countenance  1  shall  never  for 
get,  and  her  words  shall  rest  in  my  heart 
like  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver. 
Henceforth  I  look  upon  life  with  a  purified 
vision.  Nothing  is  mean,  nothing  is  un 
worthy  of  pursuit  that  ministers  to  the 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DREAM.  151 


good  of  society.      On  this  rock  I  rest  my 
feet.     Here  I  stand  upon  solid  ground." 

From  that  time,  Algeron  pursued  his 
business  as  a  merchant  with  renewed  acti 
vity.  The  thought  that  he  was  minister 
ing,  in  his  sphere,  to  the  good  of  all  around 
him,  was  a  happy  thought.  It  cheered  him 
on  in  every  adventure,  and  brought  to  his 
mind,  in  the  hour  of  retirement,  a  sweet 
peace,  such  as  he  had  never  before  known. 
Fully  did  he  prove  that  the  consciousness 
of  doing  good  to  others  brings  with  it  the 
purest  delight. 


THE  END. 


MAGGY  S    BATY. 


MAGGY'S    BABY, 


OTHER   STORIES. 


BY    T.    S.   A  R  T  H  U  K. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS  BY  CBOOM1 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT    &    CO- 

1873. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


LIPPI  SCOTT'S    PRESS, 
PHILADELPHIA. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

MAGGY'S  BABY 7 

CHARLEY'S  CRUTCH , 16 

HARRY  AND  HIS  DOG;   OR,   THE  EVILS  OF  DIS 
OBEDIENCE 22 

THE  BEGGARS 32 

A  CHRISTMAS  STORY 42 

THE  TONGUE-BRIDLE 66 

PRESENCE  OF  MIND 74 

TEMPTATION  RESISTED 90 

THE  TWO  WAYS 103 

HARRY'S  DREAM 115 

TRUE   BENEVOLENCE 125 

THE  LAMB 132 

LITTLE  GEORGE  AND  HIS  GRANDMOTHER 138 

FADING  FLOWERS....  147 


MAGGY'S  BABY. 


dear,  dear  me !  I  wish  I  kne\\ 
what  to  do  with  myself!"  sighed 
Mary  Page,  as  she  closed  the  book  she  had 
been  trying  to  read,  and  threw  herself  in  a 
lounging  position  on  the  sofa. 

"  Put  on  your  things  and  take  a  walk. 
You  need  fresh  air  and  exercise,"  said  the 
young  lady's  mother. 

"I  don't  care  about  walking,"  replied 
Mary  listlessly. 

"  Your  health  requires  it,  my  dear," 
urged  Mrs.  Page. 

Seated  in  the-  room  with  the  mother  and 
daughter,  was  a  quiet -looking  girl,  busily 
employed  with  her  needle.  She  did  not 


8  MAGGY'S    BABTf. 

appear  to  observe  what  passed  between 
Mrs.  Page  and  Mary ;  nor  in  fact  did  she, 
for  her  mind  was  as  busy  as  her  fingers — 
and  both  were  usefully  occupied. 

Without  responding  to  her  mother's  last 
remark,  Mary,  whose  eyes  had  rested  for  a 
moment  or  two  on  the  form  of  the  young 
girl,  as  she  bent  over  the  work  that  lay  in 
her  lap,  said,  with  some  impatience  in  her 
voice  and  manner — 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  Alice !  do  stop.  It 
makes  me  nervous  to  look  at  you.  No 
thing  but  stitch,  stitch,  stitch,  hour  in  and 
hour  out.  What  can  you  be  doing  ?" 

The  young  person  thus  addressed  raised 
her  head,  and  fixed  her  mild  blue  eyes  on 
her  interrogator,  while  a  wreath  of  the 
heart's  warm  sunshine  played  softly  about 
her  lips.  Then,  without  replying,  she  re 
sumed  her  employment. 

"  Oh  dear !"  sighed  Mary,  again. 

"  Now  do  exert  yourself,  my  love,"  said 
Mrs.  Page,  in  a  persuasive  tone  of  voice. 
"  Dress  yourself  and  take  a  walk." 


MAGGY'S  BABY.  9 

"Where  shall  I  go?" 

"  Walk  out  and  take  the  fresh  air. 

"Walk  for  nothing?  Oh  dear,  no! 
That's  worse  than  staying  in  the  house; 
particularly  as  an  hour  must  be  spent  be 
forehand  in  dressing.  Now  do,  Alice,  stop 
that  everlasting  stitch,  stitch,  stitching!" 
said  Mary,  more  petulantly  than  when  she 
first  addressed  her.  « You  make  me  so 
nervous  that  I  can  scarcely  contain  myself. 
What  are  you  doing  ?" 

Again  the  young  girl  raised  her  head,  and 
fixed  her  gentle  eyes  on  Mary  Page.  For 
a  few  moments  she  looked  at  her  calmly, 
yet  with  a  mild  reproof  in  her  glance. 
Then  gathering  her  work  in  her  hands,  she 
arose,  and  was  about  leaving  the  room,  when 
the  former  interrupted  her  by  saying — 

"  Just  tell  me  what  you  are  so  wonder 
fully  busy  about,  Alice?  Here,  for  two 
days,  you  have  been  doing  nothing  but 
stitch,  stitch.  What  a  fit  of  industry  has 
come  over  you." 

Alice,   whose   hand  was   on   the   door. 


10  MAGGY'S  BABY. 

paused  to  hear  what  Mary  tad  to  say. 
Then  approaching  her,  she  bent  over  and 
whispered  something  in  her  ear,  to  which 
the  young  lady  replied — 

"  No — it's  too  much  trouble.  I  don't 
feel  like  moving." 

"  But  I  want  you.  Come !  I've  some 
thing  particular  to  say." 

"  Say  it  here.  Ma  won't  listen,  if  it's 
any  secret." 

"  Not  a  word  of  it  until  you  are  in  my 
room,"  said  Alice  firmly. 

There  was  a  decision  about  her  tone  and 
manner  that  had  its  effect  upon  Mary,  who 
slowly  raised  herself  from  her  reclining  po 
sition,  saying  as  she  did  so — 

"  You  are  a  provoking  chit,  Alice." 

The  two  girls  presently  left  the  apart 
ment  together,  and  ascended  to  the  room 
of  Alice.  As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  the 
latter  said — 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  sweeter  babe  than 
Mrs.  Martin's?" 

"Isn't  it  a  darling?"  instantly  replied 


MAGGY'S  BABY.  1] 

Mary,  a  light  glancing  over  her  face,  and 
sparkling  in  her  eyes.  The  true  heart  in 
her  felt  instantly  the  ingenuous  appeal  of 
the  cousin — for  that  was  the  relationship 
borne  by  the  young  girls  to  each  other. 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  quietly  returned  Alice. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Mary,  with  ani 
mation,  « that  I  begged  Mrs.  Martin  to  lend 
me  the  dear  little  thing  for  an  hour  or 
two?  I  declare !  if  she'd  only  said  yes,  if  I 
wouldn't  have  brought  it  home  in  my 


arms." 


Alice  smiled  at  her  cousin's  suddenly 
awakened  enthusiasm. 

« I  know  where  there  is  just  as  sweet  a 
baby  as  Mrs.  Martin's ;  and  what  is  more, 
its  mother  will  let  you  bring  it  home,  if  you 
feel  at  all  inclined  to  do  so." 

"  Do  you !"  And  Mary  struck  her  hands 
together  in  expression  of  her  delight.  "  And 
pray,  where  is  it?' 

"  Not  half  a  square  from  here." 

"  Whose  baby  is  it  ?" 

"Do  you  remember  Maggy  Green,  who 


12 


used  to  sew  for  your  mother,  two  or  three 
years  ago?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  how  she  got  married  and  went  to 
live  in  New  Jersey  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  Maggy's  husband  died  three  or 
four  months  ago,  and  she  has  come  back  to 
the  city." 

"  And  is  living  near  us  ?" 

"  Yes.  She  is  at  the  house  of  a  friend, 
who  has  kindly  given  her  a  home  until  she 
is  able  to  get  one  for  herself." 

"  And  Maggy  has  the  dear  little  baby  of 
which  you  were  speaking  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Is  it  sweet  and  clean  ?"  asked  Mary,  a 
slight  shade  passing  over  her  animated  face. 
"  So  many  of  these  poor  babies  are  neglect 
ed  by  their  mothers,  and  kept  in  such  a 
condition  that  one  can't  bear  to  look  at, 
much  less  touch  them.  A  dirty  baby  !  Oh, 
dear !  Save  me  from  such  an  infliction." 

"It  will  be  our  fault  if  Maggy's  baby 


MAGGY'S  BABY.  13 

isn't  always  as  nice  as  a  new  pin/'  said 
Alice.  "Now  let  me  show  you  what  I 
have  been  doing." 

And  Alice  opened  a  drawer,  and  lifted 
therefrom  two  neatly  made  baby-frocks,  one 
with  a  pink  and  the  other  with  a  blue  sprig. 
There  was  also  a  white  flannel  petticoat,  a 
snowy  linen  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  white 
worsted  socks,  with  blue  edges  and  ties. 

"  What  beauties !"  exclaimed  Mary.  "And 
are  these  for  Maggy's  baby  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  did  you  make  them  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  just  finished  a  white  apron, 
the  <  stitch,  stitching'  of  which  annoyed 
you  so  much  just  now." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  queer  one,  Alice !  And 
you've  been  working  these  two  or  three  days 
for  Maggy's  baby?  Why  didn't  you  ask 
me  to  help  you  ?" 

"You?" 

«  Yes,  me." 

"  Oh,  I've  heard  you  say,  dozens  of  times, 
that  you  had  no  taste  for  things  useful." 


14  MAGGY'S  BABY. 

"  I  say  a  great  many  things  when  Fir. 
tired  of  myself  and  everybody  around  me. 
But  when  are  you  going  to  see  Maggy  and 
her  baby?" 

"  This  morning." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Mary  with  ani 
mation.  Already  a  beautiful  glow  had 
come  to  her  cheeks  that  were  before  pale ; 
her  eyes  were  full  of  life,  and  every  move 
ment  evinced  the  rapid  flow  of  animal 
spirits. 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  have  your 
company,"  replied  Alice. 

"  I'll  get  myself  ready  in  a  twinkling." 
And  Mary  glanced  from  the  room.  In  a 
much  shorter  time  than  it  usually  took 
Mary  to  dress  herself,  she  was  ready  to  ac 
company  her  cousin,  and,  chatting  together 
with  much  animation,  they  left  the  house. 

We  will  not  accompany  the  young  ladies 
to  the  humble  abode  of  Maggy  Green,  where 
they  betook  themselves,  and  where  half 
an  hour  was  spent  in  washing  and  dress 
ing  the  baby.  A  lovely  babe  it  was,  with 


MAGGY'S  BABY.  15 

eyes  as  blue  as  the  bending  heavens,  and 
cheeks  as  fair  and  beautiful  as  a  newly-open 
ing  flower. 

Daily,  from  that  time,  there  was,  in  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Page,  an  object  of  deep  inte 
rest  for  Mary— an  object  that  drew  upon 
her  active  love ;  for  Maggy  was  taken  back 
into  the  family,  and  her  baby  became  the 
especial  care  of  Alice  and  her  cousin.  Not 
half  so  frequently  did  the  latter  now  com 
plain  of  being  a  burden  to  herself;  for  there 
was  always  something  or  other  that  love 
inspired  her  to  do  for  the  sweet  little  stranger 
— Maggy's  baby;  and  thus  she  learned  thai 
only  in  coming  out  of  ourselves,  and  living 
for  others,  is  it  possible  to  find  true  enjoy 
ment  in  life. 


CHARLEY'S   CRUTCH. 


Children's  Home"  is  the  name  by 
which  an  institution  in  Philadelphia, 

founded  in  the  true  spirit  of  charity,  is 
known.  Some  years  ago,  a  few  benevolent 
ladies,  moved  with  compassion  for  the  suf 
ferings  of  very  young  children  neglected 
and  abused  by  intemperate  and  vicious  pa 
rents,  rented  a  house  in  South  street,  a  few 
doors  below  Ninth,  employed  a  matron,  and 
placed  in  her  care  a  few  little  ones,  resigned 
into  their  hands  by  mothers  who  could  not 
or  would  not  provide  for  them.  Among 
the  first  inmates  of  this  "  Home"  were 
babes  but  a  few  months  old,  some  of  whom, 
when  received,  were  in  a  condition  the 


1C 


CHARLEY'S  CRUTCH.  17 

bare  thought  of  which  makes  the  heart 
ache. 

From  this  small  beginning,  the  institu 
tion  grew  to  importance,  and  soon  there 
were  in  "  The  Children's  Home"  between 
sixty  and  seventy  inmates,  from  the  babe 
of  a  few  months  old  to  the  boy  and  girl 
of  eleven  and  twelve.  All  are  supported 
and  educated  through  the  unostentatious 
but  true  benevolence  of  a  few  kind  and  gene 
rous-hearted  ladies. 

Visitors  to  the  "  Home"  sometimes,  from 
a  kind  impulse,  will  give  the  children  pen 
nies.  To  prevent  dissatisfaction  and  little 
jealousies,  the  matron  has  made  it  a  rule 
that  all  money  so  received  by  the  children 
shall  be  placed  in  a  box.  This  box  is  open 
ed,  generally,  about  New-year's  day,  and 
the  amount  expended  for  fruit  and  cakes, 
in  which  all  the  children  share  alike. 

Among  the  children  was  a  lame  boy, 
about  eight  years  of  age,  named  Charley, 
who  has  to  use  a  crutch.  Now,  as  fully 
two  years  had  passed  since  Charley's  crutch 


?8  CHARLEY'S   CRUTCH. 

was  made,  and  he  had  been  growing  all  that 
time,  it  was  but  a  natural  consequence  that 
said  crutch  should  have  become  too  short ; 
or,  rather,  that  Charley  should  have  grown 
too  tall  for  his  crutch.  So  the  little  fel 
low,  in  using  his  crutch,  had  to  bend  over 
more  and  more  every  day,  to  his  no  small 
inconvenience.  The  matron  noticed  the 
growing  defect,  but  did  not  know  where  to 
get  a  new  crutch  for  Charley.  Some  of  the 
lady  patronesses,  in  their  regular  visits,  also 
observed  the  child,  and  spoke  of  the  want 
of  a  new  crutch.  But,  some  how  or  other, 
the  new  crutch  did  not  come,  and  Charley 
continued  to  hop  about,  but  more  and  more 
defectively,  as  the  time  wore  on. 

New-year's  day  came  round  again,  and 
the  box  containing  the  aforementioned  pen 
nies  was  formally  opened  by  the  matron 
in  the  presence  of  all  the  children. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  after  the  money  was 
counted  over,  "what  shall  be  bought  with 
these  pennies?  There  is  one  apiece  all 
round.  What  will  you  have,  Johnny  ?' 


CHARLEY'S  CRUTCH.  19 


speaking  to  a  little  fellow  whose  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her  own. 

"  I'll  have  a  cake,"  said  Johnny. 

Very  well ;  Johnny  will  have  a  cake. 
What  will  you  have,  Mary  ?" 

"  An  apple,"  replied  Mary. 

And  so  the  questions  went  round — one 
deciding  on  a  cake,  one  on  an  apple,  and 
another  choosing  for  his  or  her  New-year's 
treat  a  ^ie  or  candy.  At  last  the  ques 
tion  was  put  to  a  little  fellow,  whose  large 
bright  eyes  sparkled  as  he  half  arose  in  his 
eagerness,  and  said — 

"  I'll  give  my  penny  to  buy  ChaJey  a 
new  crutch." 

The  matron  stood  for  some  moments  si 
lent.  She  was  touched  by  the  unexpected 
answer. 

"  You're  a  good  boy,"  said  she  in  a  changed 
voice,  "  to  think  of  Charley — poor  little  fel 
low!  He  does  want  a  new  crutch  very 
badly.  Now,  children,"  she  added,  speak 
ing  in  a  cheerful,  elevated,  encouraging 
tone,  "what  say  you  all  to  buying  Char- 


IV.— 2  B  2 


20  CHARLEY'S  CRUTCH. 


ley  a  new  crutch  ?  Which  of  you  will  give 
your  pennies  for  this  purpose  ?  You  shall 
do  just  as  you  please  Now,  let  all  who  are 
for  buying  Charley  a  crutch  with  these  pen 
nies,  hold  up  their  right  hands." 

Instantly  the  hands  of  the  children  flew 
into  the  air;  some  even,  in  the  heartiness 
of  their  assent,  holding  up  both  hands. 

"  You  are  good  children,"  said  the  ma 
tron,  much  affected  by  the  incident. 
"  Charley  will  now  have  a  new  crutch, 
and  your  pleasure,  in  seeing  him  use  it  day 
after  day,  will  be  far  greater  than  if  this 
money  had  been  expended  in  candies,  cakes, 
and  apples." 

The  sequel  to  this  pleasant  story  it  will 
not  be  hard  for  the  reader  to  imagine.  But 
we  will  not  leave  all  to  the  imagination. 
One  of  the  ladies  interested  in  the  Chil 
dren's  Home  coming  in  soon  after  the  oc 
currence  just  related,  was  informed  of  what 
had  taken  place. 

"  Let  the  children  have  their  treat,"  said 
she.  "I  will  get  Charley  a  crutch.  AD 


CHARLEY'S  CKUTCH.  21 

act  so  unselfish  as  this  must  not  go  unre 
warded." 

A  neat  walnut  crutch  of  the  proper  length 
soon  took  the  place  of  Charley's  short,  rough 
ly  made  pine  one,  and  it  filled,  for  the  time, 
the  measure  of  the  child's  happiness.  The 
pennies  which  had  been  collecting  in  the 
box,  served  their  first  purpose,  and  pro 
duced  the  long  looked-for  feast  of  good 
things,  which  were  now  enjoyed  with  a 
double  zest  by  the  children. 

There  is  a  germ  of  good  in  the  heart  of 
that  humble  child,  (his  name  even  has  not 
reached  us,)  who,  forgetting  himself,  thought 
only  of  his  little  friend  and  companion.  The 
instincts  of  a  noble  nature  are  stirring  in  his 
young  bosom.  Humble,  unknown,  forsaken 
as  he  has  been,  and  kept  from  want  and 
suffering  by  the  hand  of  charity,  there  is 
that  in  him  which  gives  promise  of  a  man 
of  whom  in  after  years  it  shall  be  said — 
"  The  world  is  better  for  his  having  lived/1 


HARRY  AND  HIS  DOG; 

OR,  THE  EVILS  OF  DISOBEDIENCE. 


U/^10ME,  Nero,"  said  Harry  Long,  as  he 
^  passed  out  of  the  house  with  his 
satchel  in  his  hand.  "  Come,  old  fellow." 

Nero  sprang  instantly  to  his  feet,  and 
dashing  past  the  boy,  ran  a  few  rods  from 
the  house,  and  then  pausing,  turned,  and, 
with  a  look  half  human  in  its  pleasure  and 
intelligence,  waited  for  Harry  to  come  up 
with  him. 

Now,  Henry's  mother  had  more  than 
once  told  him  that  he  must  not  take  Nero 
away  when  he  went  to  school.  But  it  was 
so  pleasant  to  have  the  dog's  company 
along  the  road  to  the  school-house,  that 


HAK  tY   AND    HIS    DOG 


Page  22. 


\ 


THE   EVILS   OF   DISOBEDIENCE.  25 

the  lad  every  now  and  then  disobeyed. this 
injunction,  trusting  that  he  would  escape 
punishment. 

Nero  was  quite  as  willing  to  go  with  his 
young  master  as  the  latter  was  to  have 
him  in  company;  and  bounded  away,  as 
has  been  seen,  at  the  first  word  of  encour 
agement.  But  the  two  friends  had  not 
proceeded  far,  before  the  mother  of  Henry 
saw  them  from  her  window,  and  instantly 
came  out  and  called  after  Nero.  She  was 
offended  at  the  disobedience  of  her  son, 
and  uttered  some  threatening  words  to 
both  him  and  the  dog. 

Nero  did  not,  at  first,  show  much  incli 
nation  to  obey  the  authoritative  voice  of 
Mrs.  Long;  and  if  Harry  had  only  spoken 
a  single  word,  would  have  gone  with  him 
in  spite  of  all  opposition.  But  that  word 
Harry  dared  not  speak,  and  so  the  dog 
stood  still,  looking  back  first  toward  Mrs. 
Long,  and  then  wishfully  after  his  young 
master.  Finally,  Nero  returned  slowly  to 
the  house,  and  Harry  went  on  as  slowly, 


26  HARRY  AND   HIS   DOG  ;    OR, 


and  equally  as  much  disappointed,  to 
school. 

When  Harry  returned  home,  a  few  hours 
afterward,  his  mother  received  him  kind 
ly,  yet  with  a  serious  countenance.  His 
first  thought  was  of  his  disobedience  in 
trying  to  get  Nero  to  follow  him  to  school ; 
and,  as  he  expected,  she  began  at  once  to 
speak  on  that  subject. 

"  Harry,"  said  she,  "  I  hardly  think  you 
can  have  forgotten  what  I  said  to  you  last 
week  about  taking  Nero  away  from  home." 

Henry  hung  down  his  head,  and  did  not 
attempt  to  offer  an  excuse  for  his  conduct. 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry,"  continued  Mrs. 
Long,  "  that  my  son  should  have  acted  so 
disobediently.  Sorry  for  his  sake ;  for  dis 
obedience  brings  evil  into  the  heart,  and 
this  creates  unhappiness.  And  I  am  also 
sorry  for  another  cause :  to  disobey  is  to 
do  wrong;  and  wrong-doing,  in  almost  every 
case,  injures  others." 

Harry  looked  into  his  mother's  face  with 
a  glance  of  inquiry. 


THE   EVILS   OF  DISOBEDIENCE.  27 

"  Yes,  my  son/'  she  added,  "  wrong-doing, 
in  almost  every  case,  injures  others." 

"  It  couldn't  have  hurt  any  body  if  I 
had  taken  Nero  to  school  with  me.  How 
could  it,  mother  ?"  said  the  boy. 

Mrs.  Long  gazed  for  a  few  moments  into 
the  face  of  Harry,  and  then,  reaching  her 
hand  toward  him,  said — 

"  Come." 

There  was  something  so  serious,  not  to 
say  solemn,  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Long,  that 
the  lad  began  to  feel  a  little  strangely. 

"  Where,  mother  ?"  he  asked. 

But  she  did  not  answer,  and  he  moved 
along  silently  by  her  side. 

From  the  sitting-room  down-stairs,  where 
the  mother  had  met  her  boy,  they  passed 
along  the  passage,  and  up-stairs  into  a 
chamber,  where,  to  his  surprise,  Harry  saw 
his  little  sister,  Phoebe,  a  sweet  child  in  her 
second  year,  lying  asleep,  and  looking  so 
pale  and  deathly,  that  the  sight  caused  a 
shudder  to  pass  through  his  body. 

"Oh,  mother!"  he   exclaimed,   turning 


28  HARKY  AND   HIS   DOG  J   OR, 


quickly  and  grasping  the  garment  of  his 
parent.  "  Dear  mother !  what  is  the  mai> 
ter  with  Phoebe  ?" 

"  Let  us  sit  down  here  by  the  window," 
said  Mrs.  Long  in  a  calm  voice,  "  and  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  what  has  happened." 

"  Is  she  dead,  mother?"  eagerly  asked 
the  boy,  while  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  No,  my  child,  she  is  not  dead,  thanks 
to  our  heavenly  Father!  But  I  cannot 
tell  how  it  would  now  be,  if  you  had  taken 
Nero  off  to  school  with  you  this  morning." 

"  Why,  mother  ?    What  did  Nero  do  ?" 

"  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you.  After  I 
called  the  dog  back,  he  came  and  laid  him 
self  down  on  the  mat  before  the  door,  and 
placing  his  head  between  his  forepaws, 
shut  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be  sleeping. 
He  remained  lying  thus  for  nearly  an 
hour,  when,  all  at  once,  I  saw  him  start 
up,  listen,  and  look  about  him.  Presently 
he  ran  off  and  went  all  around  the  house. 
He  seemed  uneasy  about  something.  First 
he  looked  in  one  direction,  and  then  in 


THE   EVILS   OF   DISOBEDIENCE.  29 

another;  snuffed  the  air;  put  his  nose  to 
the  ground  and  ran  a  little  way  from  the 
house,  and  then  came  back  again. 

"  <  What  is  the  matter,  Nero  ?'  said  I. 

"  He  came  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  my 
face  with  a  look  that  to  me  seemed  anx 
ious,  stood  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
went  to  his  mat  again.  But  he  did  not  lie 
there  more  than  an  instant  before  he 
arose  and  started  off  up-stairs.  In  a  little 
while  he  came  down  and  seemed  more  un 
easy  than  ever.  I  began  now  to  feel 
strangely. 

"  c  Where  is  Phoebe  ?'  I  now  called  out 
to  Margaret,  who  was  in  the  kitchen. 

"  '  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,'  replied  Mar 
garet.  '  I  thought  she  was  with  you/ 

"At  this  moment,  with  a  short  bark, 
Nero  sprang  toward  the  spring.  I  saw 
this,  and,  fearing  that  Phoebe  might  have 
wandered  off  in  that  direction,  followed 
quickly.  But,  ere  I  had  gone  halfway,  I 
beheld  the  noble  dog  returning  with  your 
little  sister  in  his  mouth,  and  the  water 


IV.— C 


30  HARRY  AND   HIS   DOG  J   OR, 


dripping  from  her  hair  and  clothes.  She 
appeared  to  be  quite  dead  when  I  took  her 
into  my  arms ;  and  did  not  show  any  signs 
of  life  for  nearly  half  an  hour  afterward. 
Then  she  began  slowly  to  recover.  Oh, 
my  son  !  think  what  might  have  been  the 
consequence,  if  our  faithful  Nero  had  not 
been  at  home." 

Harry  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  burying  them  in  his  mother's  lap, 
sobbed  bitterly. 

uAnd  will  Phoebe  get  well,  mother?" 
he  asked,  looking  up  with  tearful  eyes,  after 
he  had  grown  calmer. 

"  Yes,  my  son,"  replied  Mrs.  Long.  "  She 
is  out  of  all  danger,  now.  God  has  per 
mitted  her  still  to  remain  with  us." 

"  Oh !  if  she  had  been  drowned,"  said 
Harry,  the  tears  flowing  afresh. 

"  But  for  Nero,  this  painful  event  might 
have  taken  place." 

"  Suppose  that  he  had  gone  to  school 
with  me  ?"  The  boy  saddened  as  he  spoke. 

"  Sad,  sad  might  have  been  the  cense- 


THE   EVILS   OF   DISOBEDIENCE.  31 

quences  of  your  disobedience,  my  son.  You 
now  understand  what  I  meant  by  our 
wrong  acts  affecting  others  as  well  as  our 
selves.  In  right-doing,  Henry,  there  is 
always  safety.  Never  forget  this.  May 
the  lesson  you  have  now  received  go  with 
you  through  the  remainder  of  your  life." 

Just  then  Phoebe  awoke  and  rose  up 
in  bed.  Harry  ran  to  her,  and  putting  his 
arm  about  her  neck,  kissed  her  tenderly. 

Nero  came  in  soon  after,  and  shared 
the  joy  and  caresses  of  his  young  friend, 
with  whom,  not  many  hours  before,  he 
had  joined  in  willing  disobedience.  But 
Nero  was  not  to  blame  in  this,  for  he  fol 
lowed  the  instinct  of  his  nature.  Harry 
was  alone  to  blame;  for  he  had  reason  and 
reflection,  and  knew  that  the  act  he  medi 
tated  was  wrong,  because  it  was  an  act  of 
disobedience. 


THE  BEGGARS. 


A  NNA  and  Willy  were  walking  with 
•fw  their  mother,  one  clear,  cold  day,  early 
in  the  new  year.  The  shop-windows  were 
still  full  of  elegant  and  attractive  holiday 
goods,  arid  the  children  lingered,  at  vari 
ous  points  along  the  street,  to  enjoy  the 
display. 

Anna  had  a  sixpence,  the  last  that  re 
mained  of  her  Christmas  and  New-year's 
gifts,  and  she  had  promised  herself  some 
pleasure  in  spending  it.  She  was  a  tender 
hearted  child.  Suffering  in  others  always 
awakened  her  sympathy,  and  made  her  de 
sire  its  relief.  Let  me  give  an  incident  to 
illustrate  her  character 


THE  BEGGARS.  33 

Anna  had  been  saving  her  money  for 
Borne  time  previous  to  the  holidays,  and  in 
her  little  purse  was  over  half  a  dollar.  A 
few  days  before  Christmas,  a  lady  friend 
called  upon  her  mother,  who  had  engaged 
to  go  with  her  to  a  place  called  the  "  Chil 
dren's  Home,"  where  were  gathered  togeth 
er  some  thirty  or  forty  little  children, 
from  the  babe  of  a  few  weeks  old  to  the 
boy  and  girl  of  nine  or  ten — little  children 
whose  parents  were  either  dead,  or  too  idle 
and  vicious  rightly  to  care  for  them.  Here, 
they  had  warm  rooms,  comfortable  food  and 
clothing,  kind  nurses,  and  careful  teachers. 
This  "  Home"  was  provided  by  the  true 
kindness  of  a  few  excellent  ladies,  who  not 
only  supported  it  with  their  money,  but 
visited  it  regularly  to  see  that  their  benevo 
lent  purposes  were  fully  carried  out. 

Anna  went  with  her  mother  to  this  Chil 
dren's  Home.  How  quickly  was  her  heart 
touched  by  what  she  saw !  There  was  a 
poor  little  motherless  babe,  not  so  old  as 
her  little  sister  Helen.  It  had  large  dark 

02 


THE    BEGGARS. 

eyes,  curly  hair,  and  rosy  cheeks,  just  like 
Helen's.  When  Anna  bent  down  to  kiss 
it,  the  tears  blinded  her,  to  think  that  the 
babe  had  no  kind  mother  to  love  and  care 
for  it. 

"  Mother,"  whispered  Anna,  as  they  were 
about  going  away. 

"Well,  dear?  What  is  it?"  asked  her 
mother. 

"  Can't  I  give  my  half-dollar  to  the  Chil 
dren's  Home  ?" 

"  The  half-dollar  you  saved  for  Christ 
mas?" 

"  Yes,  mother.  I've  got  it  in  my  pocket ; 
and  if  you'll  let  me,  I'll  give  it  to  the  Chil 
dren's  Home." 

"  Do  so,  if  you  like,  my  dear,"  replied 
Anna's  mother,  greatly  pleased  at  such  an 
evidence  of  good  feeling  and  self-denial  on 
the  part  of  Anna,  who  had,  she  knew,  en 
tertained  other  purposes  in  regard  to  her 
money. 

So  Anna  gave  her  half-dollar  to  the  poor, 
motherless  children;  and  she  felt  happier 


THE  BEGGARS.  85 


for  what  she  had  done,  than  if  she  had  spent 
it  in  buying  things  to  gratify  herself. 

Such  was  Anna,  the  little  girl  who  was 
now  walking  with  her  mother  and  brother. 

"  Oh,  look !"  she  cried,  stopping  sudden 
ly,  and  catching  hold  of  her  mother's  hand. 
"  There  is  a  poor  woman  and  three  little 
children.  It's  so  cold,  and  they've  got  no 
home.  Can't  I  give  them  my  sixpence  ?" 

"  Just  look  at  that  unfeeling  lady,"  said 
Willy,  speaking  with  some  indignation,  and 
pointing  across  the  street,  where  a  lady, 
warmly  clad,  with  her  hands  protected  by 
a  muff,  was  passing  the  beggars  without 
offering  them  a  single  penny. 

"  That  is  Mrs.  L ,"  replied  the  mo 
ther;  "and  I  know  her,  my  son,  to  be  any 
thing  but  an  unfeeling  woman." 

"  Why  don't  she  offer  the  beggar  a  penny, 
then.  I  only  wish  I  had  some  money.  I'd 
give  it  to  her  very  quick.  Run  over,  sis, 
and  give  her  your  sixpence." 

Now,  Willy  had  spent  every  cent  given 
to  him  during  the  holidays,  in  buying  things 


86  THE   BEGGARS. 

for  his  own  use.  He  did  not  indulge  at  all 
in  the  luxury  of  benevolence. 

"  Mrs.  L ,"  replied  the  mother,  "may 

not  think  it  true  charity  to  encourage  women 
to  sit,  with  their  poor  little  children,  in  the 
cold  all  day,  begging  for  pennies,  instead  of 
trying  to  support  them  by  useful  work." 

"  Ah,  but  mother,"  spoke  up  "Will  quick 
ly,  "  suppose  they  can't  get  work  to  do  ?" 

"  Then,  don't  you  think  it  would  be  bet 
ter  for  them  to  go  with  their  children  to 
the  Almshouse,  where  they  would  have 
warm  rooms  to  stay  in,  good  food  to  eat, 
and  comfortable  clothes  to  wear, — and 
where  they  would  be  required  to  do  some 
thing  useful?  Idleness  and  beggary  are 
next-door  neighbours  to  vice." 

"Can't  I  give  her  my  sixpence?"  urged 
Anna,  whose  heart  was  too  full  of  sorrow 
for  the  little  children  all  exposed  to  the 
cold,  to  feel  the  force  of  what  her  mother 
said. 

"  Certainly,  dear,  if  you  wish  to  do  so. 
The  money  is  your  own,"  was  replied 


THE    BEGGARS.  37 

So  Anna  ran  across  the  street,  and  placed 
her  sixpence  in  the  woman's  hand.  When 
she  returned,  she  looked  thoughtful.  But 
little  was  said  by  her  on  her  way  home. 
That  evening,  as  she  sat  alone  with  her 
mother — Willy  and  the  other  children 
were  playing  in  the  nursery — she  said — 

"  I  don't  think  that  beggar-woman  was 
a  good  woman,  mother." 

"  Why  not,  dear?"  was  the  natural  in 
quiry. 

"  I  can't  tell,"  said  Anna.  "  But  when 
she  looked  into  my  face,  I  felt  afraid.  Oh ! 
I'm  so  glad  she  is  not  my  mother.  I'm 
sure  she  is  not  good  to  her  children.  Poor 
little  things !  I  w^ish  they  were  in  the  Chil 
dren's  Home.  They  would  be  so  much 
better  off." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,  my  child." 

"  And  the  baby,  mother.  Oh !  it  had 
such  a  strange  look.  Its  cheeks  were  red 
and  shining,  and  its  eyes  were  half  closed. 
It  did  not  look  as  if  it  was  asleep ;  and  yet 

IV.— 3 


38  THE    BEGGARS. 


it  wasn't  awake.  What  could  have  ailed 
it,  mother?" 

"  Beggar-women,"  replied  the  mother, 
"  often  give  their  babes  large  doses  of  lau 
danum,  or  preparations  from  this  deleteri 
ous  drug,  to  keep  them  quiet,  while  they 
sit  idle  in  the  street." 

"  Does  it  hurt  them,  mother?" 

"  It  makes  them  stupid  and  insensible  for 
a  few  hours  ;  and  also  destroys  their  health 
— if  it  does  not  cause  their  death,  it  lays 
the  foundation  for  wretchedness  in  the 
future." 

"  Had  the  babe  I  speak  of  taken  lauda 
num?" 

"  I  should  think  so  from  what  you  say," 
replied  the  mother. 

"Oh  dear!  isn't  it  dreadful,  mother? 
Why  don't  they  take  the  poor  little  chil 
dren  away  from  such  bad  women,  and  put 
them  into  the  Children's  Home.  It  would 
be  so  much  better."  .,,•? 

"  In  that  I  agree  with  you  entirely,  Anna. 
But  what  is  everybody's  business,  as  they 


THE    BEGGARS. 


say,  seems  to  be  anybody's  business.  Our 
city  officers,  who  are  chosen  by  the  people 
to  attend  to  the  public  good,  are  not  al 
ways  as  faithful  in  little  things  as  they 
should  be." 

"  I  only  wish  that  I  was  mayor  for  a  lit 
tle  while,"  said  Anna.  "  I'd  take  up  every 
woman  I  found  begging  in  the  streets  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms — that  I  would !  And 
if  they  had  been  giving  them  laudanum,  or 
any  of  that  kind  of  stuff,  I'd  take  their 
babies  away  from  them,  and  put  them  in 
the  Children's  Home." 

"  That  would  certainly  be  wiser  than  to 
encourage  them  in  idleness  and  the  ill- 
treatment  of  their  tender  offspring,  by  giv 
ing  them  pennies  and  sixpences." 

"  But  there  are  some  beggars  who  are 
deserving?" 

"  I  would  hardly  like  to  say  no,  my  child," 
replied  the  mother  thoughtfully.  "And 
yet,  I  very  much  doubt  if,  in  this  country, 
any  but  the  idle  or  vicious  become  beggars. 
To  give  to  such,  you  can  easily  see,  would 


40  THE    BEGGARS. 

be  no  charity;  for  that  would  only  encou 
rage  them  in  their  evil  ways." 

"  I'm  sorry  I  gave  that  woman  my  six 
pence,"  said  Anna,  after  looking  serious  for 
some  time. 

"  Don't  say  that,  my  dear,"  returned  her 
mother  smiling — "  your  act  was  an  unself 
ish  one;  you  wished  to  help  the  needy. 
There  was  a  good  impulse  in  your  heart. 
Ever  cherish  such  impulses.  They  come 
to  you  from  God,  who  clothes  the  naked 
and  feeds  the  hungry.  But  we  should  be 
wise,  Anna,  as  well  as  good." 

"Wise!  0  yes;  I  understand  you,  mo 
ther.  We  should  know  whether  our  alms 
will  really  do  good,  before  we  make  them." 

"  Yes,  love.  That  is  what  I  mean.  If 
we  give  to  the  idle  and  vicious,  we  do  them 
really  more  harm  than  good — for  we  fur 
nish  them  with  the  means  of  continuing  in 
idleness  and  vice." 

"  I  can  understand  that,  mother,  very 
well.  I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  it  my 
self." 


THE   BEGGARS.  41 


"  Many  grown  people,  Anna,  are  no 
wiser  in  this  respect  than  you  have  been. 
There  are  others,  again,  who  make  the  vice 
of  beggary  a  plea  for  not  giving  at  all — 
who  push  aside  every  applicant  for  aid: 
without  even  an  inquiry  into  his  circum 
stances.  This,  you  see,  is  falling  into  error 
on  the  other  side.  The  true  spirit  is  a 
willingness  to  help  those  in  need  to  the 
best  of  our  ability.  When  this  is  felt,  there 
will  be  no  lack  of  opportunity. 

"  Nor,  in  giving,  need  we  ever  be  in  much 
doubt.  You  were  in  none  when  you  gave 
your  half-dollar  to  help  the  Children's 
Home." 


A  CHEISTMAS  STORY. 


following  true  story,  written  by  a 
^~  highly  valued  friend  and  relative,  is 
so  beautifully  told,  and  conveys  so  sweet  a 
lesson  of  childlike  trust  and  confidence, 
that  we  cannot  resist  the  strong  inclination 
we  feel  to  give  it  a  place  in  the  present 
volume.  Our  young  friends  will  thank  us 
for  so  doing. 


THE    CHILD'S    FAITH. 

It  was  a  cold  evening,  and  there  was  but 
little  fire  in  Mrs.  Hoffman's  stove ;  so  little 
Frantz  sat  close  by  it;  and  though  his 
thoughts  were  far  away,  yet  a  slight  feeling 

42 


A    3HRISTMAS    STOR?.  43 


of  discomfort  from  the  chilliness  mingled 
with  his  fancies. 

His  mother's  wheel  kept  on — as  it  al 
ways  did  in  the  winter's  long  evenings — 
with  a  low  humming  sound,  that  had  till 
now  been  very  cheerful  and  pleasant  to 
little  Frantz;  but,  somehow,  he  forgot  to 
notice  it  this  night.  Poor  Frantz! — he 
scarcely  looked  like  himself,  for  his  head 
was  bent  down,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  be 
looking  straight  through  the  floor,  so  fixed 
and  intent  did  his  gaze  seem. 

Often  and  often  did  the  mother's  eye 
turn  to  her  little  boy,  for  never  before  had 
the  joy-speaking  eye  of  Frantz  been  so  long 
bent  to  the  earth ;  but  still  the  mother  said 
no  word,  till  at  last  a  deep  sigh  came  from 
the  parted  lips  of  Frantz ;  then  his  mother 
laid  her  hand  softly  upon  his;  yet  even 
that  gentle  touch  startled  Frantz,  so  lost  was 
he  in  thought ;  and  when  he  quickly  lifted 
his  face,  and  saw  the  questioning  look  of 
his  mother,  his  pent-up  thoughts  burst  out 
at  once. 


44  A   CHRISTMAS    STORY. 

*  Oh,  mother !  In  a  week  it  will  be  Christ 
mas-day.  Can  I  not  have  a  Christmas-tree?" 

The  mother's  face  looked  sad,  but  only 
for  a  moment ;  she  knew  that  the  earnest 
wish  of  little  Frantz  was  not  likely  to  be 
realized  ;  but  she  knew,  too,  that  it  was 
best  for  her  boy  to  learn  to  bear  cheerfully 
any  crossing  of  his  desires  which  must  be ; 
and  she  spoke  more  soothingly  and  gently 
than  usual,  as  she  said — 

"  And  what  makes  my  little  Frantz  set 
his  heart  on  that  now  ?  He  has  never  had 
a  Christmas-tree  before !" 

"Oh,  that  is  it,"  exclaimed  Frantz;  "I 
never  had  one.  Ever  since  I  was  a  baby, 
mother,  I  have  heard  of  the  good  Christ- 
child,  who  brings  beautiful  gifts  to  others. 
Why  does  he  not  bring  them  to  me  ?  Am 
I  worse  than  all  the  rest,  mother  ?" 

"  No — no,  Frantz ;"  so  spoke  the  mother 
hastily — for  in  her  heart  arose  a  picture  of 
the  gentleness,  the  self-denying  fortitude 
of  her  little  boy,  in  the  midst  of  trouble; 
his  patience  in  sickness,  his  industry  in 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  45 


health,  his  anxious  care  to  help  her  in  all 
that  his  little  hands  could  do.  "  No — no ! 
my  Frantz — it  is  not  that." 

"  Well,  mother,  but  is  there  any  reason? 
Oh  !  you  do  not  know  how  I  have  dreamed 
and  dreamed  of  a  beautiful  tree  that  I 
should  have  this  Christmas :  it  was  full  of 
golden  fruit  and  lighted  tapers,  and  under 
it  were  laid  gifts'  for  you,  dear  mother :  a 
new  Bible,  with  large  print ;  and  a  purse 
of  money,  so  that  you  might  not  have  to 
work  so  hard,  dear  mother;  and  warm 
clothes  that  would  never  let  you  get  cold. 
And  oh !  as  I  came  along  the  street  to-day, 
and  saw  the  windows  shining  with  their 
loads  of  beautiful  toys,  and  gifts  of  all  sorts, 
and  saw  the  boys  and  girls  running  and 
shouting,  and  telling  how  they  would  not 
care  for  any  thing  else,  when  the  Christmas- 
day  was  once  come,  and  they  would  have 
their  loaded  tree — then,  mother,  all  the 
dreams  I  have  had,  since  I  can  first  re 
member,  came  back ;  all  you  have  told  me 
of  the  good  Christ-child  and  of  his  love  for 


D2 


46  A   CHRISTMAS   STORY. 

children ;  and  I  half  felt,  mother,  as  if  1 
was  left  out,  and  not  loved  among  the  rest." 

"  Dear  Frantz,"  said  the  mother,  "  it  was 
a  sad,  sad  thought.  Do  not  let  it  come 
into  your  heart  again.  Oh !  the  Christ- 
child  is  always  good — altogether  loving, 
even  when  his  love  is  shown  in  such  ways 
that  we  do  not  clearly  see  it  at  once. 
Come  closer  to  me,  Frantz." 

Frantz  saw  in  her  mother's  face  a  look 
of  such  deep  tenderness,  that  his  soul 
grew  full.  He  took  his  own  little  seat,  and 
sat  close  beside  her,  and  leaned  his  head 
against  her  knee,  and  the  mother  said 
gently— 

"  The  Christ-child  has  given  you  beauti 
ful  gifts,  my  Frantz;  he  has  given  you 
life,  and  a  warm,  earnest  heart;  he  has 
given  you  a  mother,  who  loves  you  so 
dearly;  a  home  to  shelter  you;  he  gives 
us  the  light  of  day,  and  all  the  glorious 
things  its  reveals,  and  the  stiller  beauty  of 
tin1  night;  and  he  gives  us,  more  than  all, 
a  hope  of  heaven,  and  a  knowledge  ol  the 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  47 


path  to  it.  Are  not  these  great  gifts, 
Frantz?" 

Frantz  lifted  his  face ;  he  did  not  speak, 
but  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  his  mo 
ther  knew  that  his  heart  said — 

"  Yes." 

So  she  went  on : — 

"  These  are  the  gifts  we  most  need  to 
make  us  happy ;  others  may  be  good  for  us, 
but  the  Christ-child  knows  better  than  we 
do  what  we  need.  If  it  were  good  for  us,  he 
would  give  us  all  we  wish  for ;  but  then 
we  might  not  make  a  good  use  of  his  gifts, 
or  we  might  grow  proud  of  them,  or  be  so 
wrapped  up  in  the  gifts  as  to  forget  the 
giver.  Ah !  my  Frantz,  let  us  only  ask  for 
what  is  best  for  us  to  have,  and  he  will 
give  it;  he  loves  to  give,  and  only  refuses 
what  will  hurt  us." 

Again  little  Frantz  had  bent  his  head  on 
his  hand,  but  now  it  was  not  sadness,  only 
thought,  that  was  in  his  face ;  and  he 
asked — "  How  can  we  know  what  is  best — 
what  to  ask  for?" 


48  A   CHRISTMAS   STORY. 


"  If  it  is  not  given,  think  that  it  is  best 
withheld,  and  be  patient ;  if  it  is  given,  be 
thankful,  and  use  the  gift  aright.  See, 
Frantz !" 

And  the  mother  arose,  and  took  from  a 
closet  a  small  sum  of  money. 

"This,"  she  continued,  "is  all  I  have;  if 
any  of  this  is  spent  for  toys  or  play,  I  shall 
not  have  any  to  buy  shoes  for  you  or  for 
me,  and  by  this  I  know  the  Christ-child 
deems  it  best  for  me  to  be  content  with 
what  is  most  necessary,  and  to  give  up  the 
pleasure  of  buying  you  beautiful  golden 
fruit  and  coloured  tapers." 

"  Could  I  not  do  without  shoes  ?"  asked 
Frantz.  "  I  would  go  so  many  errands  for 
the  old  cobbler,  that  he  would  mend  my 
old  ones ;  and  oh !  if  that  would  make  it 
right" 

"And  I- — should  I  do  without  shoes?" 
asked  the  mother. 

Frantz  looked  down  at  the  worn-out 
shoes  she  had  on,  and  again  his  heart  was 
full. 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  49 

"Oh  no,  mother;  you  must  have  shoes. 
But  oh !  how  happy  the  boys  must  be 
whose  mothers  have  shoes,  and  can  give 
them  Christmas-trees  too !" 

Long  did  Frantz  lie  awake  that  night 
and  ponder  over  all  his  mother  had  said, 
and  at  last  a  thought  sprang  into  his  mind. 
It  was  not  wrong  to  ask  the  Christ-child 
for  what  we  wish,  if  we  will  only  patiently 
bear  the  withholding.  He  would  ask  for 
the  tree.  But  how  ?  His  mother  had  told 
him  the  Christ-child  was  ready  to  answer, 
and  always  near.  Frantz  would  write  his 
heart's  wish  in  a  letter,  and  direct  it  "  To 
the  Christ-child." 

And  early  in  the  fair  morning,  Frantz 
wrote  the  letter,  and  when  he  met  his  mo 
ther,  his  face  was  once  more  the  gay,  bright 
face  of  old ;  for  in  his  pocket  was  the  paper 
which  seemed  to  him  a  warrant  of  coming 
joy,  and  in  his  heart  was  a  feeling  very 
like  certainty  that  his  wish  would  be 
granted ;  yet  he  did  not  speak  of  it.  It  was 
his  first,  his  glad,  darling  secret,  and  it 


50  A    CHRISTMAS    STORY. 

should  be  a  great  surprise  to  his  mother. 
So  he  only  looked  joyful  and  kissed  her; 
and  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  head,  and 
said  how  glad  she  was  to  see  her  boy  so  pa 
tient  and  cheerful  once  more. 

Frantz  did  many  little  acts  of  kindness 
and  industry  that  day,  for  in  his  heart  was 
a  fountain  of  hope  and  love ;  and  he  wish 
ed  to  help  every  one.  But,  lively  as  he 
was,  he  did  not  forget  to  drop  his  precious 
letter  in  the  post-office. 

When  the  postmaster  came  to  look  over 
the  letters,  of  course  he  was  much  surprised 
at  this  one  of  Frantz,  with  so  strange  a  di 
rection;  but  in  a  moment  he  saw  that  it 
was  in  a  child's  hand,  and  he  opened  the 
letter.  It  ran  thus : — 

"GooD  CHRIST-CHILD, 
"  I  am  a  poor  little  boy,  but  I  have  a 
good  mother,  who  has  taught  me  many 
things  about  you;  and  she  has  said  that 
you  are  kind  and  good,  and  love  little  chil 
dren,  and  delight  to  give  them  gifts,  so  that 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  51 


they  are  not  hurtful  ones.  Now,  my  mo 
ther  is  kind  too,  and  would  like  to  give  me 
all  I  want,  but  she  is  poor,  and  when  I 
asked  her  for  a  Christmas-tree,  she  could 
not  give  me  one,  because  she  had*  only  mo 
ney  enough  to  buy  shoes  for  us;  so  I  ask 
you,  who  are  kind  and  rich,  to  give  me  one. 
I  hope  I  am  not  a  bad  boy — I  am  sure  my 
mother  does  not  think  I  am;  and  if  it  is 
best  for  me  not  to  have  the  tree,  I  will  try 
to  be  patient,  and  bear  it  as  a  good  boy 
should;  but  I  don't  see  what  hurt  a  large 
Bible,  or  warm  clothes,  could  do  tp  my  mo 
ther;  so,  if  I  may  not  have  the  tree,  oh! 
please  give  her  those,  and  I  shall  be  so 
happy. 

"FRANTZ  HOFFMAN." 

Pleased  with  the  simple,  childish  inno 
cence  of  the  letter,  the  post-master  put  it 
in  his  pocket.  When  he  went  home,  he 
found  a  rich  lady  there,  who  had  come  to 
take  tea  with  his  wife;  and  at  the  table, 
when  all  were  assembled,  he  drew  forth  the 


52  A   CHRISTMAS   STORY. 

letter  of  little  Frantz,  and  read  it  aloud, 
telling  how  it  had  come  into  his  hands,  and 
saying  how  the  poor  little  fellow  would 
wonder  at  never  getting  his  tree,  nor  ever 
hearing  of  his  letter  again. 

"  But  he  may  hear  of  it  again,"  said  the 
rich  lady,  who  had  listened  carefully  to 
every  word.  "  There  is  so  much  goodness 
of  heart  in  the  poor  boy's  love  for  his  mo 
ther,  that  it  well  deserves  to  be  rewarded. 
He  may  hear  of  it  again." 

So  the  lady  remembered  the  name  of  the 
boy ;  indeed,  she  asked  the  man  to  give  her 
the  letter,  which  he  did,  and  by  its  aid  she 
sought  and  found  out  where  Frantz  lived. 
From  some  of  the  neighbours  she  heard 
how  poor  they  were,  and  how  little  Frantz 
helped  his  mother  all  day  cheerfully,  and 
was  the  best  boy  in  all  the  neighbourhood; 
and  that  Mrs.  Hoffman  had  not  now  even 
the  money  to  buy  shoes,  for  that  her  land 
lord  had  raised  her  rent,  and  she  had  to 
give  the  little  sum  laid  aside  to  him.  And 
the  lady  thought  to  herself  that  it  would  not 


A   CHRISTMAS   STORY.  53 

be  likely  to  spoil  so  good  a  boy  by  a  beau 
tiful  tree;  so  she  had  one  brought  to  her 
house — large  and  full  of  leaves  it  was;  and 
she  bought  all  kinds  of  beautiful  and  use 
ful  things  to  hang  on  it,  and  little  rose- 
coloured  tapers,  to  be  placed  among  the 
branches ;  and  on  the  table,  under  the  tree, 
were  laid  two  pairs  of  shoes,  one  pair  for 
the  mother  and  one  pair  for  Frantz,  and  a 
pair  of  thick  blankets,  and  a  large  shawl, 
and  a  purse  of  money,  (for  the  lady  knew 
that  poor  Mrs.  Hoffman  must  have  many 
wants  of  which  she  could  not  know,  and 
she  wanted  her  to  supply  them  by  means 
of  the  purse ;)  and,  best  of  all,  there  was  a 
large  Bible. 

If  Frantz's  dream  had  suddenly  turned 
into  reality,  it  could  not  have  been  more 
beautiful. 

So  day  after  day  went  on,  and  though 
Frantz  knew  not  the  fate  of  his  letter,  he 
never  doubted  that  all  would  go  well.  It 
was  pleasant  to  see  the  sunshiny  face  with 
which  he  greeted  every  morning,  as  "one 

IV.-4  TV.— E 


54  A   CHRISTMAS   STOBY. 

day  nearer  Christmas."  And  when  at  last 
Christmas  morning  came,  bright  and  clear, 
there  was  a  leaping,  bounding  heart  in  his 
bosom,  and  a  light  in  his  blue  eyes  that 
made  his  mother  smile,  though  she  scarcely 
knew  where  their  next  meal  was  to  come 
from.  The  wheel  kept  on  its  whirring, 
and  Frantz  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
blue  sky,  as  if  he  almost  thought  his  ex 
pected  tree  would  drop  down  from  it.  Sud 
denly  a  low  knock  was  heard  at  the  door, 
and  a  voice  asked — 

"Is  little  Frantz  Hoffman  here?" 

Frantz  almost  flew  to  the  door. 

"I  am  Frantz!"  he  said. 

And  the  little  maiden  who  had  asked 
for  him,  told  him  to  come  with  her,  and 
his  mother  must  come  too. 

Soon,  very  soon,  was  the  little  party 
ready,  and  the  maiden  led  them  along  gayly 
to  a  handsome  house,  whose  door  she  push 
ed  open,  and  they  entered  in. 

How  lightly  trod  Frantz  along  the  wide 
passage,  for  his  heart  whispered  aloud  to 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY.  55 

him!  At  the  end  stood  a  door  just  ajar, 
and  as  the  girl  pushed  it  open,  a  blaze  of 
light  streamed  out.  Frantz  caught  his 
mother's  hand  and  drew  her  forward,  ex 
claiming — 

"It  is  my  tree — my  tree!  I  knew  so 
well  it  would  be  ready !" 

And  sure  enough,  there  stood  the  shin 
ing  tree,  all  bright  with  lighted  tapers,  and 
laden  with  sparkling  fruit,  and  on  high  was 
an  image  of  the  beautiful  Christ-child,  hold 
ing  out  his  hand  and  smiling  so  lovingly, 
and  below  was  written — 

"FOR  FRANTZ, 

BECAUSE  HE  LOVED  HIS  MOTHER  " 


THE  TONGUE-BRIDLE. 


"TITHAT  is  the  trouble  now?"   asked 
Mrs.  Ellis,  coming  into  the  room 
where  her  daughter  Maria  sat  weeping  bit 
terly. 

"  That  will  tell  you,"  replied  Maria,  dry 
ing  her  tears  and  handing  her  mother  an 
open  letter.  Mrs.  Ellis  read  as  follows  :— 

"  Miss : — I  have  just  learned  from  Harriet 
Wilson  that  you  made  rather  free  with  my 
name  yesterday.  Now  I  would  just  like  to 
know  whether  you  did  or  did  not  say,  that 
you  thought  me  over  and  above  conceited; 
and  if  so,  what  you  meant  by  it?  I  am 
not  used  to  be  talked  about  in  that  way. 

"ANN  HARRIS." 

56 


Page  63. 


THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE.  59 

"And  did  you  say  so  to  Harriet  Wilson?" 
asked  Mrs.  Ellis. 

"Yes,  I  did;  and  now  how  to  get  out 
of  it,  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell.  I  never 
dreamed  that  Harriet  was  such  a  tat 
tler,  or  I  would  have  been  close  enough 
with  her." 

"  You  cannot  deny  it,  of  course  ?" 

"No,  not  up  and  down;  but  then,  ma,  it 
will  never  do  in  the  world  to  come  right 
out  and  acknowledge  it  pointblank.  I'd 
make  Ann  Harris  an  enemy  all  my  life." 

"How  very  unguarded  you  are,  Maria! 
This  is  the  third  or  fourth  time  you  have 
brought  yourself  into  difficulty  by  a  free 
way  of  talking  to  every  one." 

"I  know  I  am  imprudent,  ma,  some 
times;  but  then  I  never  can  believe  that 
girls  with  whom  I  am  intimate  will  act  so 
meanly  as  to  become  tattlers  and  mischief- 
makers,  until  it  is  too  late  for  caution  to  be 
of  any  avail.  But  I'm  done  with  Harriet 
Wilson.  I've  broken  off  my  intimacy  with 
several  girls  already,  for  repeating  what  I 

£2 


60  THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE. 

said  in  confidence,  and  I'll  do  the  same 
with  her." 

"  It  would  be  much  better,  Maria,"  said 
her  mother,  "if  you  would  put  a  bridle  on 
your  tongue.  This  would  save  both  your 
self  and  others  many  unkind  thoughts  and 
painful  feelings." 

"I  know  it  would,  ma;  but  then  I  can't 
always  be  watching  myself.  It's  impossi 
ble  ;  I  try  often,  but  it's  of  no  use." 

"  If  you  persevere  in  trying,  you  will  in 
time  gain  such  a  control  over  yourself  as  to 
keep  you  out  of  these  unpleasant  difficul 
ties." 

"That  may  be;  but  what  shall  I  do 
now  ?  Ann  has  pinned  me  right  down ;  and 
there  is  no  way  of  getting  off,  unless  I  say 
that  Harriet  must  have  misunderstood  me." 

"  Which  would  be  prevarication,  Maria, 
if  not  something  more." 

"  True;  for  I  remember  well  enough  that 
I  said  exactly  what  she  reported." 

"And  you  seriously  think,  Maria,  that 
Ann  is  conceited?" 


THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE.  61 

'  Yes,  ma,  I  do,  or  I  would  not  have 
said  so." 

"I  think  us  you  do,  Maria;  but  then, 
there  is  to  me  nothing  offensive  in  the  good 
opinion  she  seems  to  entertain  of  herself." 

"I  agree  with  you  there;  and  had  I  not 
been  somewhat  ill-natured  at  the  time,  I 
never  should  have  alluded  to  it." 

"I  suspected  as  much,"  Mrs.  Ellis  re 
plied.  "And  under  the  circumstances,  I 
am  of  opinion  that  the  best  way  is  for  you 
frankly  to  own  that  you  did  say  what  has 
been  reported,  and  why  you  said  it.  Such 
an  honest  confession  will  do  you  both 
good." 

"  I  don't  know,  ma." 

"Why  do  you  doubt?" 

"  I  don't  believe  that  such  an  explana 
tion  would  soften  her  angry  feelings  at  all." 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  you  feel  a 
reluctance,  on  your  own  account,  to  pursue 
this  course,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  do,"  returned  Maria, 
after  a  pause. 


62  THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE. 

"  You  are  evidently  in  the  wrong,  Maria, 
and  a  consciousness  of  this  clouds  your  per 
ception  of  the  true  way  to  act.  Now,  if 
you  will  let  me  write  your  reply  to  Ann's 
note,  I  think  all  can  be  brought  around 
again." 

"You  are  certainly  at  liberty  to  do  so, 
ma;  but  still,  I  should  like  to  reserve  the 
power  of  sending  or  withholding  it,  as  it 
seems  best  to  me.  Is  this  asking  too 
much?" 

" Oh  no!  I  would  rather  not  send  a  reply, 
unless  you  could  see  clearly  that  it  was  a 
right  one." 

"  Then  write  me  an  answer,  ma." 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  Mrs.  Ellis  pre 
pared  the  following  draft  of  a  reply  to  Ann's 
letter  of  complaint,  and  submitted  it  tn 
Maria : — 

"To  Miss  Ann  Harris: 
"  DEAR  ANN  : — I  received  your  note  com 
plaining  that  I  had,  according  to  report, 
said  unkind  things  of  you.     I  cannot  deny 


THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE.  68 


that,  in  a  moment  of  ill-humour,  I  was 
tempted  to  say  that  I  thought  you  some 
what  conceited ;  and,  to  be  frank  with  you, 
your  manners  at  times  indicate  this  fault, 
or  peculiarity  of  character.  But  it  is  not 
half  so  bad  a  fault  as  the  one  I  indulged  in 
when  I  alluded  to  it.  Now,  as  I  have  con 
fessed  that  I  have  a  trait  in  my  disposition 
much  worse  than  the  one  I  alluded  to  in 
yours,  I  must  hope  that  you  will  forgive 
me.  Ever  yours, 

"MARIA  ELLIS." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  said  Mrs. 
Ellis,  after  she  had  finished  reading  the 
proposed  reply. 

"  It's  not  exactly  such  a  letter  as  I  should 
have  written,  but  I  believe  it's  a  much  bet 
ter  one;  so  I  will  send  it." 

"  I  don't  think  it  can  do  any  harm,  and 
it  tells  the  whole  truth,  does  it  not?" 

"Yes  it  does,  and  in  pretty  plain  terms, 
too,"  said  Maria,  smiling. 

The  letter  was  accordingly  sent,  and  in 


61  THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE. 

the  course  of  a  couple  of  hours  A  reply  was 
received  from  Ann  Harris.    It  read  thus : — 

"  DEAR  MARIA  : — Your  answer  to  my  note 
has  been  received,  and  it  has  completely 
dispelled  my  unkind  feelings.  Let  us  for 
get  the  unpleasant  incident,  and  be  the 
same  to  each  other  that  we  have  so  long 
been.  Neither  of  us  is  perfect;  therefore  we 
must  learn  to  bear  and  forbear.  When  I 
see  Harriet  Wilson  again,  I  will  talk  to 
her  about  her  fondness  for  retailing  bad 
news.  Yours  truly, 

"ANN  HARRIS." 

"You  have  helped  me  to  get  back  a 
friend  that  I  always  loved,  dear  mother!" 
said  Maria,  a  good  deal  moved,  as  she 
finished  reading  the  note.  "  I  shall  try  here 
after  to  be  more  guarded  than  I  have  been. 
I  must  bridle  my  tongue,  as  you  say,  mo 
ther,  unless  I  am  pretty  certain  about  the 
company  I  am  in." 

"The  best  tongue-bridle,  Maria,"    Mrs, 


THE    TONGUE-BRIDLE.  65 


Ellis  replied,  "is  that  which  charitable  feel 
ings  and  charitable  thoughts  give.  If  your 
restraints  are  merely  external,  you  will 
ever  and  anon  be  giving  the  rein  to  your 
unruly  member,  and  then  troubles  will  be 
the  consequence." 

Maria  hardly  understood  her  mother, 
and  did  not  reply,  and  there  the  conversa 
tion  ceased.  On  the  next  morning,  Cora 
Lee,  another  friend,  called  in,  and  after 
some  chat,  said — 

"  I  hear  that  you  have  had  a  little  falling 
out  with  Ann  Harris — is  it  true?" 

"There  has  been  a  little  difference,  but 
it  is  all  settled  now,"  replied  Maria.  "  That 
tattling  busybody,  Harriet  Wilson,  went 
and  repeated  to  her  that.  I  said  she  was 
conceited.  But  she  has  been  well  rewarded 
for  her  pains;  for  in  a  note  that  I  received 
from  Ann,  she  expressed  herself  pretty 
plainly  about  her;  saying  that  she  had  a 
fondness  for  retailing  ill  news,  and  that 
she  should  talk  to  her  about  it." 

"  She  is  served  perfectly  right,"  the  friend 


66  THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE. 


remarked;  then  musing,  as  if  suddenly  re 
collecting  herself,  she  added,  "but  I  must 
be  walking;  I  have  several  calls  to  make 
this  morning." 

As  soon  as  Cora  Lee  parted  with  Maria, 
she  turned  away  to  see  Harriet  Wilson, 
who  was  one  of  her  particular  friends. 

"So  Harriet," said  she,  "Maria  and  Ann 
Harris  have  made  up  their  difference,  and, 
from  what  I  can  learn  from  Maria,  Ann  is 
pretty  hard  on  you.  She  is  going  to  take 
you  to  task  for  your  fondness  for  retailing 
ill  news.  As  for  Maria,  she  don't  spare 
you,  but  calls  you  a  tattling  busybody." 

Of  course,  Harriet  *vas  greatly  incensed, 
and  as  soon  as  her  friend  was  gone,  put  on 
her  bonnet,  and  posted  off  to  see  Ann  Har 
ris.  She  found  that  young  lady  in,  and 
commenced  on  her  something  after  this 
wise — 

"I  understand,  miss,  that  you  say  I  am 
a  retailer  of  ill  news,  and  that  you  mean  to 
take  me  to  task  about  it." 

Ann  was  a  good  deal  surprised,  and  felt 


THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE.  67 

pained  and  confused  at  this  sudden  allega 
tion.  But  before  she  could  collect  herself 
s  ifficiently  to  reply,  Harriet  said — 

"I  should  like  to  know  if  what  I  have 
heard  be  true?" 

"It  is  true  that  I  said/'  Ann  now  replied 
calmly,  "I  would  talk  to  you  about  your 
fondness  for  retailing  ill  news." 

"  You  had  no  right  to  make  such  a  charge 
against  me,"  returned  Harriet,  in  an  angry 
tone,  her  face  flushed  and  her  eyes  spark 
ling.  "It  is  a  false"— 

"  If  you  were  not  angry,  I  might,  perhaps, 
convince  you  that  I  had  some  ground  for 
what  I  said,"  replied  Ann,  still  in  a  collect 
ed  voice.  "All  of  us  have  our  faults;  I 
have  mine,  and  you  have  yours;  and  each 
of  us  is  too  apt  to  see  those  of  others  and  to 
be  blind  to  our  own.  If,  instead  of  repeat 
ing  to  me  the  remarks  made  by  Maria  Ellis, 
you  had  reflected  a  moment  as  to  what  pos 
sible  good  could  grow  out  of  it,  and  then 
resolved  not  to  speak  of  it,  all  this  trouble 
would  have  been  avoided." 

IV.— F 


68  THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE. 


"And  do  you  pretend  to  tell  me  to  my 
face,  that  I  am  fond  of  retailing  ill  news?" 
Harriet  asked,  her  anger  greatly  increased. 

"  I  try,  whenever  I  speak  of  another,  to 
confine  myself  to  what  I  think  the  truth," 
replied  Ann,  still  in  a  calm  voice,  "and 
this  I  never  retract." 

"Give  me  patience!"  Harriet  ejaculated, 
her  face  growing  pale  with  passion. 

"You  are  wrong,  Harriet,"  said  Ann, 
"  thus  to  be  so  much  exasperated  at  a  mere 
trifle.  Reflect,  whether  almost  every  day 
you  do  not,  in  speaking  of  your  friends,  al 
lude  to  their  faults  in  a  way  that  you  could 
not  bear  to  be  spoken  of  yourself.  This  is 
too  common  a  practice;  and  be  assured 
that  you  do  not  always  escape  in  this  gene 
ral  habit  of  censoriousness.  You  are  not 
faultless,  and  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things 
that  you  should  be." 

Harriet  could  not  collect  her  thoughts 
for  a  reply,  and  Ann,  after  a  pause,  went 
on — 

"If,  when  Maria  Ellis,  under  the  inllu- 


THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE.  69 


ence  of  a  momentary  ill-nature,  as  she  frank 
ly  confesses  herself  to  have  been,  spoke  of 
me  as  she  thought  in  calmer  moments,  you 
had  restrained  your  propensity  to  repeat 
such  things,  no  harm  could  have  resulted 
from  her  thoughtless,  and  I  might  almost 
say,  innocent  allegation.  But  when  you 
came  to  me,  and  told  me  that  she  had  call 
ed  me  conceited,  it  aroused  my  feelings  and 
caused  me  to  ask  for  an  explanation.  With 
the  frankness  of  a  generous  spirit,  she  at 
once  confessed  her  fault,  and  all  would  have 
been  well  again,  if  she  had  not  thoughtless 
ly  repeated  what  I  said  in  my  note  to  her 
about  you." 

But  Harriet  Wilson,  though  conscious 
that  she  had  acted  wrong,  was  so  much  in 
censed,  as  well  as  mortified,  that  others 
should  think  her  wrong,  that  she  neither 
could  nor  would  confess  her  fault,  but  braved 
it  out  with  anger  and  defiance.  As  soon  as 
she  had  gone  away,  Ann  sat  down,  and 
penned  a  note  to  Maria  Ellis — 


70  THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE. 


"DEAR  MARIA: — It  seems  that  our  little 
difficulty  is  not  yet  ended.  I  have  just  re 
ceived  a  visit  from  Harriet  Wilson,  who 
has  treated  me  in  a  very  strange  manner 
about  what  I  said  in  my  last  note  to  you  in 
reference  to  her  fondness  for  repeating  ill 
news.  I  am  sorry  that  you  communicated 
that  to  any  one,  as  it  has  not  only  prevent 
ed  my  making  an  effort  to  show  Harriet 
her  fault,  but  has  called  down  upon  me  her 
indignant  censure.  Yours,  £c. 

"ANN  HARRIS/' 

"What  is  the  matter  now?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ellis,  who  saw,  by  the  sudden  change  in  her 
daughter's  countenance,  that  the  note  she 
had  received  was  b}*  no  means  an  agreea 
ble  one.  "No  more  doings  of  the  unrily 
member,  I  hope?" 

Maria's  face  crimsoned  deeply  as  she 
handed  her  mother  the  note.  After  Mrs. 
Ellis  had  read  it,  she  said,  somewhat  kindly, 
for  she  really  felt  for  Maria  in  her 
sant  position — 


THE    TONGUE-BRIDLE.  71 

"You  have  net  put  on  the  right  tongue- 
bridle  yet,  I  see." 

"I  suppose  not.  But  indeed,  ma,  I  try 
to  be  guarded  how  and  to  whom  I  speak. 
I  never  should  have  dreamed  that  Cora  Lee 
would  have  gone  right  off  to  Harriet  Wil 
son  and  told  her  what  I  said." 

"  But  the  best  way  is  not  to  speak  un 
kindly  of  any  one." 

"  How  could  I  have  helped  it,  mother,  in 
this  case?" 

"By  simply  questioning  yourself  as  to 
your  real  motive  for  making  the  communi 
cation.  It  was  not  to  do  Harriet  Wilson 
good,  was  it?" 

"  Well,  I  can't  say,  mother,  that  it  was." 

"Your  real  motive  was  to  make  Cora 
Lee  think  meanly  of  her,  was  it  not  ?" 

'"Why,  ma!  do  you  think  I" Ma 
ria  paused  and  looked  upon  the  floor,  while 
her  face  crimsoned. 

"Probe  yourself  thoroughly,  my  child. 
It  is  of  the  first  importance  for  you  to  know 
distinctly  your  true  character.  If  you  have 

IV.-5  F  2 


72  THE   TONGUE-BRIDLE. 

taken  pleasure  in  the  idea  of  injuring  an 
other  because  she  has  wronged  or  offended 
you.  you  have  indulged  in  an  evil  affection ; 
and  unless  that  evil  affection  had  lain  con 
cealed  in  your  mind,  it  never  could  have 
been  aroused  into  activity." 

Maria  looked  thoughtful  and  concerned, 
and  her  mother  continued — 

"Surely,  my  child,  it  is  not  by  indulg 
ing  this  evil  that  it  is  to  be  weakened,  much 
less  by  concealing  it,  even  from  yourself, 
after  its  indulgence.  It  is  better  to  look  it 
in  the  face,  confess  that  it  is  wrong,  and 
then  try  and  shun  it." 

"1  think,  mother,  I  now  begin  to  see 
what  you  mean  by  a  tongue-bridle,"  said 
Maria,  looking  up  seriously  into  the  face 
of  her  kind  adviser. 

"Well,  my  child?" 

"  It  is,  that  we  should  shun  the  cause  of 
evil  speaking." 

"That  is  it,  Maria.  If  we  condemn  the 
feeling  that  prompts  us  to  speak  unkindly 
of  others,  and  try  to  conquer  it,  we  shall 


THE    TONGUE-BRIDLE.  78 

be  in  little  danger  of  indulging  the  bad 
habit.  But  if  we  only  curb  the  busy  little 
member,  at  the  same  time  that  we  desire  to 
speak  censoriously,  we  shall  be  sure,  sooner 
or  later,  to  be  betrayed  into  a  word  that  had 
better  not  have  been  uttered.  Kind  feel 
ings  for,  and  a  desire  to  do  good  to  others, 
is  the  best  tongue-bridle." 

"I  see  it  plainly  enough,  now,  dear  mo 
ther,  and  I  am  resolved  to  try  and  put  the 
true  bridle  upon  my  tongue." 

And  Maria  did  try  to  some  purpose. 
The  little  difficulty  she  was  in  was  ami 
cably  settled;  for  she  had  all  the  parties 
together,  confessed  her  fault,  and  urged  a 
general  reconciliation.  If,  at  any  time  af 
terward,  she  felt  the  desire  to  indulge  in 
unkind  words ;  she  turned  her  thoughts  in 
ward  to  the  unkind  feelings  that  prompted 
them,  and  she  was  soon  so  much  engaged 
in  trying  to  conquer  those  feelings,  that  the 
desire  -to  speak  from  them  passed  away. 
She  had  found  the  true  TONGUE-BRIDLE. 


PKESENCE    OF   MIND. 


Q.EORGE  WILLIAMS  and  Edward 
Jones,  two  boys  living  near  together, 
obtained  their  parents'  consent,  one  Satur 
day,  to  go  to  the  mill-pond  and  skate. 
There  had  been  some  pretty  cold  weather, 
and  as  the  ice  had  formed  rapidly,  Mr. 
Jones  and  Mr.  Williams  supposed  that  the 
surface  of  the  mill-pond  was  as  hard  as 
the  floor,  and  that  therefore  their  boys 
would  be  entirely  free  from  danger. 

Away  ran  the  two  boys,  with  their 
skates  hung  around  their  necks,  and  their 
thoughts  intent  upon  the  pleasure  they 
were  to  have  on  the  mill-pond.  On  reach 
ing  the  top  of  a  hill  which  overlooked  the 


74 


PRESENCE  OF   MIND.  75 

pond,  they  saw  Henry  Lee,  a  school  com 
panion,  gliding  along  over  the  smooth  sur 
face  of  the  ice  as  swiftly  as  a  bird  on  the 
wing.  Eager  to  join  him,  they  ran  shout 
ing  down  the  hill,  and  were  soon  occupied 
in  strapping  on  their  skates.  But  ere  this 
was  completed,  the  two  lads  were  alarmed 
by  a  cry  of  terror  from  Henry;  and  on 
looking  up,  they  saw  that  he  had  broken 
through  the  ice,  and  was  struggling  in  the 
water. 

At  this,  Edward  Jones  became  so  fright 
ened,  that  he  threw  off  his  skates  and 
started  back,  screaming,  toward  home; 
but  George  Williams,  with  more  presence 
of  mind  and  courage,  seized  a  long  pole 
that  lay  upon  the  shore,  and  went  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  the  assistance  of  the 
drowning  boy.  Henry  had  fallen  into 
what  is  called  an  "  air-hole,"  where  the  ice 
is  very  thin ;  and  as  at  every  attempt  he 
made  to  extricate  himself,  the  ice  broke 
with  the  weight  of  his  body,  he  was  in 
great  danger  of  losing  his  life  unless  speedy 


76  PRESENCE  OF   MIND. 

assistance  came.  If  he  remained  still  and 
held  on  to  the  edges  of  the  ice,  he  could  keep 
himself  up ;  but  then  the  water  was  so  cold 
that  in  a  little  while  he  would  get  benumbed 
and  lose  all  power  to  sustain  himself.  Be 
fore,  therefore,  the  frightened  Edward  Jones 
could  alarm  his  friends  and  bring  assist 
ance,  he  would  in  all  probability,  have  been 
lost  under  the  ice. 

As  we  have  said,  George  Williams,  who 
was  much  more  courageous  than  Edward, 
caught  up  a  pole,  and  ran  as  speedily  as 
possible  to  the  place  where  Henry  was 
struggling  in  the  water. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Henry,"  he  called ; 
"  don't  be  frightened — I'm  coming,  and  will 
get  you  out." 

At  this  Henry  ceased  his  violent  efforts 
to  extricate  himself,  and  remained  quiet 
until  George  came  up  as  near  as  it  was 
prudent  to  come,  and  laid  his  pole  across 
the  broken  place,  so  that  each  end  of  it 
rested  upon  solid  ice. 

"  Now,  hold  on  to  that,"  said  he  coolly. 


PRESENCE   OF    MIND.  77 


You  may  be  certain  the  poor  lad  in 
Hie  water  did  not  wait  to  be  asked  twice 
to  do  as  he  was  told.  With  both  hands  he 
grasped  the  stick.  Then  George  lay  down 
at  full  length,  and  keeping  one  hand  for 
support  on  the  pole,  crept  up  so  close  to 
the  broken  place  in  the  ice,  that  he  could 
grasp  one  of  Henry's  hands. 

"  Easy — easy,"  said  he  in  a  calm,  en 
couraging  voice,  as  the  boy  in  the  water 
caught  his  arm  eagerly,  and  was  in  danger 
of  dragging  him  in  also.  This  gave  Henry 
more  confidence,  and  restored,  in  some  mea 
sure,  his  presence  of  mind.  After  this  it 
took  but  a  moment  for  George  Williams  to 
pull  Henry  out,  and  get  him  beyond  all 
danger. 

The  two  boys  were  more  than  halfway 
home,  when  they  met  a  number  of  men, 
whom  Edward  Jones  had  alarmed  by  his 
cries  for  help,  running  at  full  speed  to  res 
cue  the  drowning  lad.  The  praise  the} 
bestowed  upon  George  for  his  courageous 
conduct  was  very  pleasant  to  him,  but  not 


78  PRESENCE  OF   MIND. 

half  so  pleasant  as  the  reflection  that  he 
had  saved  the  life  of  his  young  playmate. 

On  the  evening  after  this  occurrence, 
Mr.  Jones,  the  father  of  Edward,  took  his 
son  into  his  room,  and  when  they  were 
alone,  said  to  him — 

"  How  comes  it,  my  boy,  that  you  did 
not,  like  George  Williams,  go  immediately 
to  the  aid  of  Henry  Lee,  when  you  saw 
him  break  through  the  ice  ?" 

"  I  was  so  frightened,"  replied  the  boy, 
"  that  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing." 

"  And  this  fright  would  have  cost  Henry 
his  life,  if  there  had  not  been  another  boy 
near  to  save  him." 

Edward  looked  very  serious,  and  his 
eyes  were  cast  upon  the  floor. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  I  couldn't 
help  it." 

"  Don't  say  that,  my  son,"  replied  Mr. 
Jones.  "  This  timidity — or  I  might  say, 
cowardice — is  a  weakness  that  all  may,  in 
a  great  measure,  overcome ;  and  it  is  the 
duty  of  every  one  to  overcome  it,  for  all 


PRESENCE  OF   MIND.  79 

should  be  brave,  and  ready  to  risk  even 
life  to  save  others.  It  is  not  often  that 
persons  who  so  risk  their  lives  receive  any 
injury,  for  God  protects  those  who  seek  to 
protect  others.  Let  me  tell  you  something 
that  happened  when  I  was  a  boy.  Two- 
children  were  playing  near  a  spring.  One 
of  them  was  only  four  years  old ;  the  other 
was  seven.  The  larger  boy's  name  was 
Frank.  While  Frank  was  building  a  house 
with  sticks  that  he  had  gathered  under 
the  trees,  he  heard  a  splash,  and  turning 
around,  saw  that  his  little  brother  had 
plunged  headforemost  into  the  spring,  and 
was  struggling  in  the  water.  The  spring 
being  deep  and  narrow — it  was  walled  up 
at  the  sides — there  was  no  chance  for  the 
child  to  extricate  himself. 

"  When  Frank  saw  this,  he  was  terribly 
alarmed,  and  his  heart  beat  so  loud  that  it 
seemed  to  him  that  any  one  standing  near 
might  have  heard  it.  What  did  he  do? 
Run  away  for  help  ?  No,  he  was  a  very 
little  boy,  but  he  was  thoughtful  and  brave, 


IV.— G 


•80  PRESENCE  OF   MIND. 

'little  as  he  was.  Instead  of  darting  off  fof 
home  as  fast  as  his  feet  would  carry  him, 
to  get  some  one  to  come  and  save  his  bro 
ther  from  drowning,  he  laid  hold  of  him 
by  the  legs,  a  portion  of  which  were  above 
the  water,  and  applying  all  his  strength, 
succeeded  in  dragging  the  already  half- 
drowned  child  from  the  spring.  Thus,  by 
his  presence  of  mind  and  bravery,  he  saved 
the  life  of  his  brother. 

"  These  two  children  lived  near  a  mill, 
and  were  permitted  by  their  parents  to 
play  in  the  mill  or  about  the  water,  just  as 
they  pleased.  They  didn't  think  any  more 
of  danger  than  we  do  when  we  send  you  to 
school  over  the  long  bridge  that  crosses  the 
river.  Well,  one  day  they  were  playing 
by  the  side  of  the  deep  wooden  trough,  or 
sluice,  that  receives  the  water  from  the 
mill-race,  before  it  is  poured  upon  the  great 
wheels.  This  is  furnished  with  heavy 
gates  at  both  ends,  by  which  the  water  is 
let  on  and  shut  off  at  pleasure.  In  this 
trough  the  water  glides  along  more  rapidly 


PRESENCE    OF    MIND. 


than  in  the  mill-race,  and  it  is  drawn  under 
the  gate  at  the  lower  end,  with  a  very  strong,, 
whirling  motion,  and  thence  passes  to  the 
water-wheels. 

"By  the  side  of  this  deep  trough,  the- 
two  children  of  whom  I  spoke  were  play 
ing,  when  the  little  one,  who  had  before 
fallen  into  the  spring,  slipped  off,  and  went 
plunging  down  into  the  water.  Frank  saw 
him  fall.  In  an  instant  the  child,  who 
was  buoyed  up  by  his  clothes,  went  sweep 
ing  down  toward  the  open  gate,  through 
which  the  water  was  rushing.  The  delay 
of  half  a  minute  wrould  be  fatal.  Had 
Frank  become  so  much  frightened  as  to 
be  unable  to  act  promptly,  had  he  hesitated 
a  moment  what  to  do,  his  brother  would 
have  been  lost.  But  the  brave  boy  sprang 
at  once  to  his  rescue,  and  leaning  down,  he 
caught  the  child  by  the  clothes,  and  held 
on  to  him  eagerly.  The  water  was  so  far 
down,  and  Frank  had  to  stoop  so  low,  that 
he  had  not  strength  to  pull  his  brother  out; 
but  he  held  on  to  him,  and  screamed  loudly 


•"82  PRESENCE    OF   MIND. 

for  help.  But  the  noise  of  the  mill  was  so 
great  that  the  millers  could  not  hear  his 
voice.  Still  he  held  on,  and  cried  out  for 
aid.  Nearly  five  minutes  passed  before 
any  one  came  to  his  assistance;  and  then 
ti  man,  who  was  going  by,  saw  him,  and 
ran  down  along  the  mill-race,  and  rescued 
the  drowning  child.  Tims  it  was  that  the 
courage  and  presence  of  mind  of  Frank  saved 
the  life  of  his  brother  a  second  time.  Now, 
suppose  he  had  been  too  frightened  to  think 
or  act  in  a  proper  manner,  as  you  were  to 
day;  his  brother  would,  in  all  probability, 
have  been  drawn  in  under  the  gate,  and 
been  killed  on  the  wheel." 

Edward  shuddered  at  the  thought. 

"  That  brave  lad,"  continued  Mr.  Jones, 
"was  your  Uncle  Frank;  and  the  brother 
whose  life  he  saved  is  now  your  father." 

"You,  father!  you!"  exclaimed  Edward 
in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  my  son;  I  fell  into  the  spring,  and 
your  uncle  saved  me  from  drowning  by  his 
promptness  to  act;  imJ  I  fell  into  the  mill- 


PRESENCE    OF    MIND.  83 


race,  and  was  rescued  through  his  courage 
and  presence  of  mind." 

Edward's  thoughts  went  back  to  the  mill- 
pond,  and  he  saw,  in  imagination,  Henry 
Lee  struggling  in  the  hole  in  the  ice;  and 
saw  how  easy  it  would  have  been  for  him 
to  have  gone  to  his  assistance,  and  rescued 
him  from  his  perilous  situation,  instead  of 
running  away,  frightened  out  of  his  wits, 
screaming  for  others  afar  off  to  do  what 
was  needed  to  be  done  at  the  moment.  He 
felt,  painfully  too,  that  his  playfellow  would 
have  been  drowned,  had  not  George  Wil 
liams,  with  true  bravery,  gone  instantly  to 
his  aid.  It  was  a  moment  of  self-reproach 
and  mortification. 

aMany  years  ago,"  continued  Edward's 
father,  "I  remember  reading  a  story  of  a 
boy's  presence  of  mind  and  courage,  that  I 
shall  never  forget.  The  lad  of  whom  I 
speak  was  walking  along  the  road  with  his 
mother  and  a  little  sister,  when,  all  at  once, 
was  heard  the  startling  cry  of  'Mad  dog!' 
On  looking  in  the  direction  from  which 

G2 


84  PRESENCE   OF   MIND, 


this  alarming  cry  came,  a  dog  was  seen  run 
ning  toward  them,  pursued  by  a  crowd  of 
men  and  boys.  A  high  fence  on  each  side 
of  the  road  made  escape  impossible.  So 
frightened  did  the  mother  become,  that  she 
was  fixed  to  the  spot,  and  her  daughter 
clung  to  her,  screaming  in  terror.  But  the 
boy  stepped  boldly  before  his  mother  and 
sister,  and,  as  the  dog  approached,  began 
hurriedly  wrapping  around  his  hand  and 
arm  a  silk  handkerchief  which  he  had  drawn 
from  his  pocket.  In  a  shorter  period  of  time 
than  it  has  taken  me  to  relate  to  you  the 
fact,  the  dog  was  down  upon  them.  The 
brave  boy,  however,  did  not  shrink  back 
an  inch.  As  he  stood  in  front  of  his  mo 
ther  and  sister,  the  mad  animal,  on  coming 
up,  made  a  spring  at  him,  when  the  boy, 
with  wonderful  coolness,  thrust  the  hand 
around  which  he  had  wound  his  handker 
chief,  boldly  into  his  mouth,  and  grasped 
his  tongue.  While  he  kept  hold  of  the 
dog's  tongue,  the  animal  could  not  bite 
him;  and  the  handkerchief  had  protected 


PRESENCE    OF   MIND.  85 

his  hand  from  being  scratched  by  his  teeth, 
as  he  thrust  it  into  his  open  mouth. 

Ere  the  dog  could  recover  himself  and 
struggle  loose  from  the  boy,  the  men  in 
pursuit  were  upon  him,  with  clubs  and 
stones,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  lying 
dead,  almost  at  the  feet  of  the  heroic  boy, 
who,  while  he  had  saved  the  lives,  perhaps, 
of  his  mother  and  sister,  remained  himself 
unharmed. 

"Few  boys,  not  one  perhaps  in  a  hun 
dred,"  continued  Mr.  Jones,  "would  have 
had  his  presence  of  mind  and  courage,  un 
der  similar  circumstances;  and  I  doubt  very 
much,  if  one  man  in  ten  could  be  found  to 
show  so  brave  a  spirit.  Yet,  how  much 
better  and  safer  was  it  for  the  boy  to  act 
as  he  did — safer  for  himself,  and  safer  for 
those  he  loved.  The  fact  is,  my  son,  but 
little  of  danger  presents  itself  as  we  pass 
through  life,  which  may  not  be  escaped  if 
we  look  it  boldly  in  the  face,  and  see 
what  it  is  like.  Unless  we  understand 
exactly  what  the  danger  is,  and  in  what 


&6  PRESENCE    OF   MIND. 

manner  it  is  approaching,  how  shall  we 
escape  it?" 

The  stories  of  bravery  and  self-possession 
which  Mr.  Jones  related  made  a  very  mark 
ed  impression  upon  the  mind  of  Edward. 
He  saw,  by  contrast,  his  own  conduct  in  a 
most  unfavourable  light,  and  he  shuddered 
when  he  thought  of  what  the  consequence 
to  Henry  Lee  would  have  been,  had  not 
his  companion  possessed  a  cooler  and  more 
courageous  spirit  than  himself. 

It  was  not  more  than  a  week  after  the 
affair  at  the  mill-pond,  that  Edward  starts 
ed  out  with  a  little  brother,  not  over  four 
years  of  age,  whom  he  was  drawing  on  a 
sled,  for  the  purpose  of  riding  down  a  hill 
on  the  smooth  snow,  a  short  distance  from 
the  house.  On  the  way  to  this  hill,  Ed 
ward  had  to  pass  through  a  field  belonging 
to  a  neighbour.  When  nearly  across,  he 
hoard  the  noise  of  some  animal,  and  looking 
around,  saw  a  mad  bull  approaching  from 
the  other  side  of  the  field.  With  the  first 
impulse  of  fear,  he  dropped  the  rope  with 


PRESENCE    OF   MIND.  87 


which  he  was  pulling  the  sled  on  which  sat 
his  little  brother,  and  sprang  away,  in  order 
to  reach  the  fence  before  the  infuriated 
animal  came  up.  He  had  only  gone  a  few 
steps,  however,  before  he  thought  of  the 
innocent  child  on  the  sled,  who  would 
surely  be  gored  to  death  by  the  bull,  if  left 
where  he  was.  This  thought  made  him 
stop  and  turn  round.  The  bull  wras  now 
running  toward  them,  muttering  and  bel 
lowing  dreadfully.  If  he  went  back  for  his 
brother,  escape  was  almost  impossible;  but 
how  could  he  leave  the  dear  child  to  a  ter 
rible  death  without  making  an  effort  to 
save  him  ?  These  were  the  hurried  thoughts 
that  rushed  through  his  mind.  Then  he 
remembered  the  mill-pond,  the  boy  and  the 
mad  dog,  the  child  in  the  spring  and  his 
brave  brother,  and  what  his  father  had 
said  about  being  courageous.  It  took 
scarcely  an  instant  of  time  for  all  this  to 
be  presented  to  the  frightened  boy.  By  a 
strong  effort  he  composed  himself,  and  then 
ran  back  to  where  his  brother  was  still 

IV.— € 


88  PRESENCE    OF   MIND. 

upon  the  sled.  The  bull  was  now  very 
near;  but  Edward,  though  he  had  taken 
the  child  in  his  arms,  was  able  to  run  so 
fast  as  to  reach  the  fence  and  climb  over  it 
before  the  mad  creature  could  reach  them. 
In  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute  after  he 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  danger,  the  bull 
came  dashing  up  to  the  fence,  foaming  and 
bellowing  with  rage. 

"Well  and  bravely  done,  my  noble  boy!" 
exclaimed  Edward's  father,  who,  seeing  his 
children's  danger,  had  been  running  toward 
them  unperceived.  Just  as  Edward  landed, 
with  his  brother  still  clasped  in  his  arms, 
safely  on  the  right  side  of  the  fence,  he 
came  up. 

Edward  turned  quickly  toward  his  father, 
who  saw  that  his  face  was  very  pale,  and 
that  his  lips  were  quivering. 

"  It  was  a  narrow  escape,  my  son,"  said 
Mr.  Jones,  "a  very  narrow  escape.  But 
heaven  is  always  on  the  side  of  those  who 
seek  to  save  others  that  are  in  danger.  If 
you  had  hesitated  a  moment  about  acting 


PRESENCE    OF    MIND.  89 

courageously,  our  dear  little  Willy  would 
now  have  been  bleeding,  it  may  be,  upon 
the  horns  of  that  mad  animal.  How  thank 
ful  I  feel  that  you  had  the  bravery  to  do  as 
you  have  done." 

"And  I  am  thankful,  too,  father,"  said 
the  boy,  in  a  trembling  voice.  "  Oh !  if  in 
my  cowardice  I  had  permitted  Willy  to  be 
killed,  I  should  never  have  been  happy 
again  in  all  my  life." 

After  such  a  trial  and  triumph,  Edward 
was  able  in  the  future  to  act  with  becoming 
presence  of  mind,  in  all  cases  of  danger  and 
peril  that  happened  to  occur. 


TEMPTATION   RESISTED. 


CHARLES  MURRAY  left  homo,  with 

his  books  in  his  satchel,  for  school. 
Before  starting,  he  kissed  his  little  sister, 
and  patted  Juno  on  the  head,  and  as  he 
went  singing  away,  he  felt  as  happy  as 
any  little  boy  could  wish  to  feel.  Charles 
was  a  good-tempered  lad,  but  he  had  the 
fault  common  to  a  great  many  boys,  that 
of  being  tempted  and  enticed  by  others  to 
do  things  which  he  knew  to  be  contrary  to 
the  wishes  of  his  parents.  Such  acts  never 
made  him  feel  any  happier;  for  the  fear 
that  his  disobedience  would  be  found  out, 
added  to  his  consciousness  of  having  done 
wrong,  were  far  from  being  pleasant  com 
panions. 


CHARLES    AND    HIS    MOTHER. 


Page  99. 


TEMPTATION    RESISTED.  93 

On  the  present  occasion,  as  lie  walked 
briskly  in  the  direction  of  the  school,  he 
repeated  over  his  lessons  in  his  mind,  and 
was  intent  upon  having  them  so  perfect  as 
to  be  able  to  repeat  every  word.  He  had 
gone  nearly  half  the  distance,  and  was  still 
thinking  over  his  lessons,  when  he  stopped 
suddenly  as  a  voice  called  out, 
"  Halloo,  Charley !" 

Turning  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
voice  came,  he  saw  Archy  Benton,  with  his 
school-basket  in  his  hand ;  but  he  was 
going  from,  instead  of  in  the  direction  of 
the  school. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Archy  ?"  asked 
Charles,  calling  out  to  him. 

"  Into  the  woods  for  chestnuts." 
"  A'n't  you  going  to  school  to-day  ?" 
"  No,  indeed.     There  was  a  sharp  frost 
last  night,  and  Uncle  John  says  the  wind 
will  rattle  down  the  chestnuts  like  hail." 
"  Did  your  father  say  you  might  go  ?" 
"  No,  indeed.   I  asked  him,  but  he  said  I 
couldn't  go  until  Saturday.     But  the  hogs 


IV.— II 


94  TEMPTATION   RESISTED. 

are  in  the  woods,  and  will  eat  the  chestnuts 
all  up  before  Saturday :  so  I  am  going  to 
day.  Come,  go  along,  won't  you?  It  is 
such  a  fine  day,  and  the  ground  will  be 
covered  with  nuts.  We  can  get  home  at 
the  usual  time,  and  no  one  will  suspect 
that  we  were  not  at  school." 

"I  should  like  to  go,  very  well,"  said 
Charley ;  "  but  I  know  that  father  will  be 
greatly  displeased,  if  he  finds  it  out;  and  I 
am  afraid  he  would  get  to  know  it,  in  some 
way." 

"  How  could  he  get  to  know  it  ?  Isn't 
he  at  his  store  all  the  time  ?" 

"  But  he  might  think  to  ask  me  if  I  was 
at  school.  And  I  never  will  tell  a  lie." 

"  You  could  say  yes,  and  not  tell  a  lie, 
either,"  returned  Archy.  "  You  were  at 
school  yesterday." 

"  No,  I  couldn't.  A  lie,  father  says,  is  in 
the  intent  to  deceive.  He  would,  of  course, 
mean  to  ask  whether  I  was  at  school  to 
day,  and  if  I  said  yes,  I  would  tell  a  lie." 

"  It  isn't  so  clear  to  me  that  you  would. 


TEMPTATION   RESISTED.  95 


At  any  rate,  I  don't  see  such  great  harm 
in  a  little  fib.  It  doesn't  hurt  anybody." 

"  Father  says  a  falsehood  hurts  a  boy  a 
great  deal  more  than  he  thinks  fdr.  And 
one  day  he  showed  me  in  the  Bible  where 
liars  were  classed  with  murderers  and 
other  wicked  spirits  in  hell.  I  can't  tell  a 
lie,  Archy." 

"  There  won't  be  any  need  of  your  doing 
so,"  urged  Archy ;  "  for  I  am  sure  he  will 
never  think  to  ask  you  about  it.  Why 
should  he  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  But  whenever  I  have 
been  doing  any  thing  wrong,  he  is  sure  to 
begin  to  question  me,  and  lead  me  on  until 
I  betray  the  secret  of  my  fault." 

"  Never  mind.  Come  and  go  with  me. 
It  is  a  fine  day.  We  sha'n't  have  an 
other  like  it.  It  will  rain  on  Saturday,  I'll 
bet  any  thing.  So  come  along,  now,  and 
let  us  have  a  day  in  the  woods,  while  we 
can." 

Charles  was  very  strongly  tempted. 
When  he  thought  of  the  confinement  of 


96  TEMPTATION    RESISTED. 


school,  and  then  of  the  freedom  of  a  day  in 
the  woods,  he  felt  much  inclined  to  go  with 
A  rch  v. 

"  Come  along,"  said  Archy,  as  Charles 
stood  halancing  the  matter  in  his  mind. 
And  he  took  hold  of  his  arm,  and  drew 
him  in  a  direction  opposite  from  the  school. 
"  Come !  you  are  just  the  boy  I  want.  I 
was  thinking  about  you  the  moment  before 
I  saw  you." 

The  temptation  to  Charles  was  very 
strong.  "  I  don't  believe  I  will  be  found 
out,"  he  said  to  himself.  "And  it  is  such  a 
pleasant  day  to  go  into  the  woods." 

Still  he  held  back,  and  thought  of  his 
lather's  displeasure  if  he  should  discover 
that  he  had  played  the  truant.  The  word 
"  truant,"  that  he  repeated  mentally,  de 
cided  the  matter  in  his  mind,  and  he  ex 
claimed,  in  a  loud  and  decided  voice,  as  he 
dragged  himself  away  from  the  hand  of 
Archy,  that  had  still  retained  its  hold  on 
liis  arm,  "I've  never  played  truant  yet, 
ani  I  don't  think  I  ever  will.  Father  says 


TEMPTATION   RESISTED.  97 

he  never  played  truant  when  he  was  a 
boy;  and  I'd  like  to  say  the  same  thing 
when  I  get  to  be  a  man." 

"  Nonsense,  Charley  !  come,  go  with  me," 
urged  Archy. 

But  Charles  Murray's  mind  was  made 
up  not  to  play  the  truant.  So  he  started 
off  for  school,  saying,  as  he  did  so — 

"  No,  I  can't  go,  Archy ,  and  if  I  were 
you,  I  would  wait  until  Saturday.  You 
will  enjoy  it  so  much  better  when  you 
have  your  father's  consent.  It  always 
takes  away  more  than  half  the  pleasure  of 
any  enjoyment  to  think  that  it  is  obtained 
at  the  cost  of  disobedience.  Come !  go  to 
school  with  me  now,  and  I  will  go  into  the 
woods  with  you  on  Saturday." 

"  No,  I  can't  wait  until  Saturday.  I'm 
sure  it  will  rain;  and  if  it  don't,  the  hogs 
will  eat  up  every  nut  that  has  fallen,  long 
before  that  time." 

"  There  will  be  plenty  left  on  the  trees, 
if  they  do.  It's  as  fine  sport  to  knock  them 
down  as  to  pick  them  up." 


H2 


98  TEMPTATION    RESISTED. 

But  Archy's  purpose  was  settled,  and  no- 
thing  that  Charles  Murray  could  say  had 
any  influence  with  him.  So  the  boys 
parted,  the  one  for  his  school,  and  the 
other  for  his  stolen  holiday  in  the  woods. 

The  moment  Charles  was  alone  again, 
he  felt  no  longer  any  desire  to  go  with 
Archy.  He  had  successfully  resisted  the 
temptation,  and  the  allurement  was  gone. 
But  even  for  listening  to  temptation  he 
had  some  small  punishment,  for  he  was 
late  to  school  by  nearly  ten  minutes,  and 
had  not  his  lessons  as  perfect  as  usual,  for 
which  the  teacher  felt  called  upon  to  repri 
mand  him.  But  this  was  soon  forgotten; 
and  he  was  so  good  a  boy  through  the 
whole  day,  and  studied  all  his  lessons  so 
diligently,  that  when  evening  came,  the 
teacher,  who  had  not  forgotten  the  repri 
mand,  said  to  him — 

"  You  have  been  the  best  boy  in  the 
school  to-day,  Charles.  To-morrow  morning 
try  and  come  in  time,  and  be  sure  that  your 
lessons  are  well  committed  to  memory." 


TEMPTATION    RESISTED.  99 

Charles  felt  very  light  and  cheerful  as 
he  went  running,  skipping,  and  singing 
homeward.  His  day  had  been  well  spent, 
and  happiness  was  his  reward.  When  he 
came  in  sight  of  home,  there  was  no  dread 
of  meeting  his  father  and  mother,  such  as 
he  would  have  felt  if  he  had  played  the 
truant.  Every  thing  looked  bright  and 
pleasant;  and  when  Juno  came  bounding 
out  to  meet  him,  he  couldn't  help  hugging 
the  favourite  dog  in  the  joy  he  felt  at  see 


ing  her. 


When  Charles  met  his  mother,  she  looked 
at  him  with  a  more  earnest  and  affection 
ate  gaze  than  usual.  And  then  the  boy 
noticed  that  her  countenance  became  se 
rious. 

"  A' n't  3^011  well,  mother?"  asked  Charles. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  am  very  well,"  she  re 
plied.  "  But  I  saw  something  an  hour  ago 
that  has  made  me  feel  very  sad.  Archy 
Benton  was  brought  home  from  the  woods 
this  afternoon,  where  "he  had  gone  for  chest 
nuts,  instead  of  going  to  school,  as  he  should 


100  TEMPTATION   RESISTED. 

have  done,  dreadfully  hurt.  He  had  fallen 
from  a  tree.  Both  of  his  arms  are  broken, 
and  the  doctor  fears  that  he  has  received 
some  internal  injury  that  may  cause  his 
death." 

Charles  turned  pale  when  his  mothei 
said  this. 

"Boys  rarely  get  hurt,  except  when  they 
are  acting  disobediently,  or  doing  some  harm 
to  others,"  remarked  Mrs.  Murray.  "If 
Archy  had  gone  to  school,  this  dreadful  ac 
cident  would  not  have  happened.  His 
father  told  him  that  he  might  go  for  chest 
nuts  on  Saturday;  and  if  he  had  waited 
until  then,  I  am  sure  he  might  have  gone 
into  the  woods  and  received  no  harm,  for 
all  who  do  right  are  protected  from  evil." 

"He  tried  to  persuade  me  to  go  with 
him,"  said  Charles.  "And  I  was  strongly 
tempted  to  do  so.  But  I  resisted  the  tempt 
ation,  and  have  felt  glad  about  it  ever  since." 

Mrs.  Murray  took  her  son's  hand,  and 
pressing  it  hard,  said,  with  much  feeling — 

"How  rejoiced  I  am  that  you  were  able 


TEMPTATION    RESISTED.  101 


to  resist  his  persuasions  to  do  wrong.  Even 
if  you  had  not  been  hurt  yourself,  the  in 
jury  received  by  Archy  would  have  dis 
covered  to  us  that  you  were  with  him,  and 
then  how  unhappy  your  father  and  I  would 
have  been,  I  cannot  tell.  And  you  would 
have  been  unhappy,  too.  Ah!  my  son, 
there  is  only  one  true  course  for  all  of  us, 
and  that  is  to  do  right.  Every  deviation 
from  this  path  brings  trouble.  An  act  of  a 
moment  may  make  us  wretched  for  days, 
weeks,  months,  or  perhaps  years.  It  will 
be  a  long,  long  time  before  Archy  is  free 
from  pain  of  body  or  mind — it  may  be,  that 
he  will  never  recover.  Think  how  misera 
ble  his  parents  must  feel ;  and  all  because 
of  this  single  act  of  disobedience." 

We  cannot  say  how  often  Charles  said  to 
himself  that  evening  and  the  next  day, 
when  he  thought  of  Archy — 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  that  I  did  not  go 
with  him!" 

When  Saturday  came,  the  father  and 
mother  of  Charles  Murray  gave  him  per- 


102  TEMPTATION   RESISTED. 

mission  to  go  into  the  woods  for  chestnuts. 
Two  or  three  other  boys,  who  were  his 
school  companions,  likewise  received  liberty 
to  go;  and  they  joined  Charles,  and  alto 
gether  made  a  pleasant  party.  It  did  not 
rain,  nor  had  the  hogs  eaten  up  all  the 
nuts,  for  the  lads  found  plenty  under  the 
tall  old  trees,  and  in  a  few  hours  filled 
their  baskets.  Charles  said,  when  he  came 
home,  that  he  had  never  enjoyed  himself 
better,  and  was  so  glad  that  he  had  not 
been  tempted  to  go  with  Archy  Bent  on. 

It  was  a  lesson  he  never  afterward  for 
got.  If  he  was  tempted  to  do  what  he 
knew  to  be  wrong,  he  thought  of  Archy's 
day  in  the  woods,  and  the  tempter  instantly 
left  him.  The  boy  who  had  been  so  badly 
hurt  did  not  die,  as  the  doctor  feared;  but 
he  suffered  great  pain,  and  was  ill  for  a 
long  time. 


THE    TWO   WATS. 


TAMES  LEWIS  was  fifteen  years  old. 
^  Like  many  lads  of  his  age,  he  felt,  at 
times,  that  the  parental  hand,  which  sought 
to  guide  him  aright,  drew  upon  the  reins 
too  often.  He  wished  to  do  many  things 
that  his  father  disapproved,  and  often  be 
came  impatient  when  checked  by  one  wiser 
and  more  experienced  than  himself. 

In  this  respect,  James  was  like  most 
young  persons,  who  think  their  parents  or 
guardians  over-particular  about  them,  and 
more  inclined  to  abridge  their  pleasures 
than  to  widen  the  sphere  of  their  enjoy 
ments. 

"  I  think   father   is   very  unkind,"  we 

103 


104  THE   TWO    WAYS. 


have  heard  a  boy  say,  when  the  act  of  his 
parent  was  dictated  by  the  tenderest  re 
gard  for  his  welfare. 

"  Mother  never  likes  to  see  me  enjoy  my 
self,"  says  a  little  girl,  when  some  restric 
tion  is  laid  upon  her.  And  yet  that  very 
restriction  is  meant  to  save  her  from  years 
of  misery  in  after-life. 

Children  are  not  apt  to  think  that  their 
parents  are  older  and  more  experienced 
than  themselves,  and,  in  consequence,  know 
better  than  they,  what  is  for  their  good. 
Nor  do  they  comprehend  the  loving  and 
thoughtful  care,  deepening  often  into  anx 
ious  solicitude,  with  which  they  are  ever 
regarded.  We  do  not  greatly  wonder  at 
this,  because  the  minds  of  children  are  not 
perfected,  and  their  store  of  experience  is 
.small.  Still,  they  are  able  to  understand 
what  their  parents  teach  them,  and  to  act 
mure  wisely  than  if  they  followed  only 
their  own  inclinations.  And  it  is  to  help 
them  to  act  more  wisely,  and  thus  to  se 
cure  happiness  in  the  future,  that  their  pa- 


THE    TWO    ^YAYS.  105 

rents  and  friends  so  often  present  good  pre 
cepts  to  their  minds,  correct  in  them  what 
they  see  to  be  wrong,  and  seek  so  con 
stantly  to  turn  their  feet  into  ways  of 
safety. 

But  we  were  going  to  relate  something 
about  a  lad  named  James  Lewis,  who  was 
fifteen  years  old.  A  boy  who  has  gained 
that  age  generally  has  his  mind  pretty  well 
stored  from  books,  and  is  able  to  think  on 
a  good  many  subjects.  And  he  is,  more 
over,  very  apt  to  have  a  pretty  good  opinion 
of  himself  and  to  believe  that  he  knows, 
even  better  than  his  father,  what  is  best 
for  him. 

James  was  just  such  a  lad  as  we  have 
here  pictured;  and  his  father  often  felt 
troubled  about  him  when  he  saw  how  per- 
severingly  he  sought  to  have  his  own  way, 
even  though  it  was  not  approved  by  his 
parents. 

"  My  son,"  said  Mr.  Lewis,  one  day,  after 
having  vainly  endeavoured  to  make  James 
understand  that  something  he  wished  to 


IV.— 7  IV.— I 


106  THE   TWO   WAYS. 

do  was  wrong,  "  there  are  two  ways  in  life 
— one  leading  to  happiness,  and  the  other 
to  misery.  At  first  they  run  almost  side 
by  side,  and  we  may  easily  step  from  one 
to  the  other ;  but  soon  they  diverge  wide 
ly,  an<J  never  come  within  sight  of  each 
other  again.  The  path  that  leads  to  de 
struction,  my  son,  looks  more  inviting  to 
the  young  and  inexperienced  than  the  one 
that  leads  to  happiness.  The  flowers  that 
grow  along  its  margin  have  brighter  hues 
and  a  more  attractive  perfume,  while  in 
the  distance  a  hundred  bright  prospects  are 
given  to  the  eyes.  The  young  are  natu 
rally  inclined  to  walk  in  this  path.  But 
God  has  given  them  parents  arid  friends, 
to  point  them  to  the  better  way,  and  lead 
them  therein.  They  stand  as  angels  of 
mercy,  sent  from  heaven  to  guide  them  to 
the  way  of  life.  James,  try  and  let  this 
thought  sink  into  your  mind.  And  now  I 
leave  you  free,  in  this  instance,  to  act  as 
your  own  mind  may  direct.  I  have  pointed 
out  the  danger  that  is  before  you.  I  huvo 


THE   TWO   WAYS.  107 


told  you  that  the  way  in  which  you  desire 
to  walk  is  not  the  right  way.  That  which 
we  feel  inclined  to  do,  is  not  always  best 
for  us,  because  our  hearts  are  evil,  and  in 
clined  to  lead  us  into  evil.  Left  free,  as  1 
now  leave  you,  let  me  earnestly  entreat 
you  to  choose  the  path  of  safety.  It  may 
not  be  so  inviting  at  first;  you  may  not  be 
able  to  enter  it  except  through  self-denial : 
but  you  will  not  walk  in  it  long  before  dis 
covering  that  the  flowers  which  spring  up 
here  and  there  have  a  sweet  and  soothing 
perfume,  and  that  your  feet  are  not  weary, 
although  the  way  looked  rough  when 
viewed  from  the  point  where  it  diverged 
from  the  path  I  have  so  earnestly  warned 
you  not  to  take." 

We  are  sorry  to  say  that  the  words  of 
Mr,  Lewis  did  not  sink  so  deeply  into  the 
heart  of  James  as  they  should  have  done. 
It  is  true  that  he  thought  about  them,  and. 
to  a  certain  extent,  comprehended  their 
meaning.  But  his  inclination  was  stronger 
than  his  reason.  As  his  father  had  not  laid 


108  THE   TWO    WAYS. 

a  command  on  him,  he,  after  a  struggle  in 
his  own  mind  between  a  sense  of  right  and 
a  desire  to  participate  in  a  pleasure  whose 
charms  his  imagination  had  heightened, 
suffered  himself  to  enter  the  way  in  which 
there  wras  no  safety,  and,  before  he  dreamed 
of  danger,  he  was  led  aside  into  the  com 
mission  of  an  act  that  violated  both  human 
and  divine  laws. 

When  James  returned  home,  he  felt 
afraid  to  meet  his  father.  Oh,  how  unhappy 
he  was !  Never  in  his  life  had  he  been  so 
wretched.  He  had  gathered  the  first  fruit 
that  hung  temptingly  from  the  branches 
that  bent  over  the  way  he  had  chosen  to 
walk  in,  but  it  had  proved  as  bitter  as 
wormwood.  All  that  his  father  had  said 
when  warning  him  not  to  choose  the  path 
of  error,  came  vividly  to  his  mind,  and  al 
most  with  tears  did  he  repent  of  his  folly. 
Alone  in  his  room,  bowed  down  Avith  shame 
and  self-condemnation,  James  Lewis  sat, 
after  the  shades  of  evening  had  fallen. 
Gradually,  as  the  twilight  deepened,  am] 


THE    TWO    WAYS.  109 


as  his  eyes  ceased  to  reflect  the  objects 
around  him,  the  mind  of  the  lad  became 
filled  with  confused  and  rapidly  varying 
images. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  great  change.  He 
found  himself  standing  on  a  beautiful  plain. 
From  this  departed  two  roads,  toward 
which  he  was  walking.  His  mind  was 
tranquil  and  happy.  One  of  these  roads 
looked  exceedingly  inviting.  Bright  flowers 
sprang  thickly  beside  it,  and  trees,  among 
the  branches  of  which  sported  birds  of 
gayest  plumage,  grew  all  along  its  borders. 
The  other  road  presented  nothing  attrac 
tive.  The  margin  was  nearly  barren,  and 
it  began  at  once  to  ascend  a  steep  and 
somewhat  rugged  hill.  As  James  drew 
near  the  point  where  these  two  ways  di 
verged,  he  met  an  old  man,  with  a  mild 
countenance,  and  eyes  lit  up  by  wisdom. 

"  You  see  before  you,"  said  the  old  man 
to  him,  "  the  Way  of  Life  and  the  Eoad  to 
Destruction.  Choose,  now,  which  you  will 
walk  in.  The  Road  to  Destruction  looks 


110  THE   TWO    WAYS. 

far  more  inviting  at  the  entrance  than  the 
\Vay  of  Life ;  but  the  flowers  you  see  have 
no  perfume,  the  fruits  that  hang  temptingly 
from  the  trees  are  bitter  to  the  taste,  and 
the  road  which  looks  so  smooth  and  plea 
sant  is,  in  reality,  rough  and  stony. 

"  The  farther  you  go  in  this  road,  the 
less  attractive  it  becomes;  but,  with  every 
step  of  progress  in  the  Way  of  Life,  the 
more  beautiful  Avill  all  appear.  The  one 
leads  to  death,  the  other  to  life.  Choose, 
now,  the  way  in  which  you  will  walk." 

The  boy  paused  only  for  a  few  moments. 
He  looked  first  at  the  unattractive  way, 
and  then  at  the  path  so  full  of  beauty. 

"  The  old  man  erred,"  said  he  in  his 
heart.  "  This  is  the  Road  to  Happiness  and 
to  Life,  and  the  other  is  the  way  to  De 
struction." 

And  then  he  entered,  with  hurry  ing 
fuel,  the  Road  to  Destruction.  Earnestly 
the  old  man  called  after  him,  and  tenderly 
did  he  warn  him;  but  the  boy  heeded  him 
not. 


THE    TWO    WAYS.  Ill 

In  his  eagerness  to  reach  a  spot  at  a 
short  distance  from  the  point  where  the 
two  roads  separated,  and  at  which  there 
was  a  beautiful  arbour,  with  a  fountain 
throwing  bright  waters  into  the  sunny  air, 
his  foot  struck  against  a  stone  that  was  not 
perceived,  and  he  fell  to  the  earth  with  a 
stunning  jar.  He  was  in  so  much  pain 
from  the  fall,  when  he  reached  the  green 
arbour,  that  he  could  not  enjoy  its  pleasant 
shade,  nor  take  delight  in  the  beautiful 
fountain.  With  a  groan  he  threw  himself 
upon  the  green  sward;  where  he  had  lain 
only  a  few  minutes,  when  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  in  sudden  terror,  for  close  to  him  had 
crept  a  poisonous  serpent,  that  was  just 
about  striking  him  with  its  deadly  fang. 

With  less  ardour  the  boy  moved  on  in 
the  way  he  had  chosen.  Soon  a  number 
of  flowers,  glowing  in  all  the  hues  of  the 
lainbow,  arrested  his  eyes;  and  he  stepped 
aside  to  gather  them.  But  their  odour  was 
so  offensive  that  he  threw  them  to  the 
earth  quickly.  Another  flower  tempted 


112  THE   TWO    WAYS. 

him  by  its  beauty ;  but,  in  plucking  it,  lie 
tore  his  hands  with  thorns. 

Pausing  now,  he  looked  back,  and  the 
wish  arose  in  his  mind  that  he  had  taken 
the  other  road.  He  would  have  retraced 
his  steps,  but  he  remembered  the  serpent 
at  the  fountain,  and  feared  to  go  by  that 
dangerous  place  again.  So  he  moved  on 
once  more.  Far  in  advance  there  opened 
before  him  a  beautiful  prospect,  and  he 
pressed  on  to  enjoy  the  scene.  But,  all 
was  an  illusion — like  a  mirage  in  the 
desert.  When  he  gained  the  spot,  the  at 
traction  had  disappeared.  And  now  the 
road  began  to  ascend,  and  to  wind  along 
the  skirt  of  a  forest.  His  heart  grew  faint 
as  he  entered  deeper  and  deeper  into  this 
gloomy  district,  and  yet  saw  no  open  space 
ahead. 

As  he  walked  fearfully  along,  a  roar  shook 
the  earth;  then  a  beast  of  prey  rushed 
past  him,  and  struck  his  fangs  deep  into 
the  vitals  of  some  weaker  animal.  Terror 
gave  wings  to  his  feet,  and  he  ran  deeper 


THE    TWO   WAYS.  118 

and  deeper  into  the  forest.  Night  at  length 
began  to  come.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
he  could  see  his  way  or  keep  in  the  path, 
which  had  become  so  rough  that  he  stum 
bled  at  almost  every  step.  His  feet  were 
bruised  and  cut,  and  he  walked  onward 
in  pain. 

"  Oh  that  I  had  taken  the  other  road !" 
he  said,  pausing  in  the  midst  of  the  dark 
forest,  and  looking  back.  But  the  cry  of  a 
wild  beast  arose  in  the  direction  from  which 
he  had  come.  He  moved  again,  when,  sud 
denly,  a  meteor  shot  across  the  sky.  By 
the  light  which  it  gave,  he  saw  himself  on 
the  very  edge  of  a  fearful  gulf,  down  which 
he  gazed  in  horror.  Another  step  and  he 
would  have  been  lost.  The  shock  startled 
him  'from  his  dream. 

All  was  dark  in  the  chamber  where 
James  Lewis  sat,  and  it  was  some  moments 
before  he  could  realize  the  fact  that  he  was 
safe  in  his  father's  house,  with  the  two  ways 
in  life  yet  before  him,  and  he  in  freedom 
to  choose  the  one  in  which  he  would  walk. 


114  THE   TWO  WAYS. 

Dear  children !  if  you  wish  to  enter  the 
right  way — the  Waj  of  Life,  leading  to  fe 
licity — you  must  do  so  through  obedience. 
You  cannot,  yourselves,  know  this  way.  It 
must  be  pointed  out  to  you.  If  left  to 
yourselves,  you  would  be  almost  certain  to 
take  the  Road  to  Destruction.  The  way 
of  obedience  is  the  way  of  safety.  This 
way  does  not  look  inviting  at  first,  but, 
when  you  have  once  entered  it,  you  will 
find  that  it  grows  more  pleasant,  attractive, 
and  beautiful,  at  every  step.  Unlike  the 
other  way,  no  serpents  lurk  amid  the  wav 
ing  grass;  no  thorns  are  among  its  flowers; 
it  leads  through  no  dark  forest  abounding 
in  ravenous  beasts.  And,  unlike  the  way 
which  terminates  in  the  gulf  of  Destruc 
tion,  it  ends  in  the  garden  of  God. 


HARRY'S  DREAM. 


"  QUCH  a  dream  as  I  had,  mother!"  said 

Henry  Jones,  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the 

breakfast-table ;  and  he  laughed  as  he  spoke. 

"  What  was  it  about  ?"  asked  the  boy's 
mother. 

"  Oh  !  It  was  such  a  funny  dream.  I 
thought  old  Peter  lent  me  his  violin ;  and 
I  went  out  alone  with  it  into  the  woods,  and 
then  sat  down  upon  a  rock  and  began  to 
play.  As  I  drew  the  bow  across  the  strings, 
such  music  filled  the  air  as  I  never  heard 
before.  The  very  leaves  on  the  trees,  and 
the  wind  that  played  among  them,  grew 
still  to  listen.  But,  more  wonderful  than 
this :  while  I  was  playing,  three  of  the 
dearest  rabbits  you  ever  saw  came  leaping 

116 


116  HARRY'S   DREAX. 

along,  and  they  stood  and  looked  at  me, 
with  their  ears  bent  back,  and  their  heads 
turning  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the 
other,  to  listen.  In  a  little  while  they  all 
got  upon  the  stump  of  a  tree  that  had  been 
cut  down,  and  there  sat  upon  their  hind- 
feet,  while,  with  their  forefeet  they  kept 
time  to  the  music.  Just  then  I  heard  a 
noise,  and  glancing  round,  I  saw  an  old 
owl,  with  his  solemn  face,  looking  out  from 
a  hollow  tree." 

"  An  owl !"  said  Fanny,  as  she  laughed 
aloud.  Fanny  was  the  sister  of  Henry  Jones. 

"  Yes ;  a  great  owl.  And  he  looked  so 
serious !  But  I  played  on  as  hard  as  I  could 
play,  and  the  music  seemed  to  go  away  off 
through  the  woods,  it  was  so  loud.  Pre 
sently  I  heard  such  a  rattling  among  the 
bushes  and  such  a  rushing  in  the  air  all 
around  me.  A  beautiful  deer  with  branch 
ing  horns  came  bounding  along;  and  when 
he  came  near  me,  he  stopped  and  looked 
at  me  with  his  large  dark  eyes.  His  face 
was  gentle  as  the  face  of  a  lamb.  I  kept 


HARRY'S   DREAM.  117 

drawing  my  bow  as  hard  as  I  could,  and 
the  deer  stooped  down,  and  lay  on  the 
grass  and  listened.  Then  all  the  birds  and 
beasts  that  were  in  the  great  wood  came 
gathering  around  me,  and  while  I  played 
for  them,  they  hearkened  to  the  music  as 
if  they  had  been  human,  instead  of  dumb 
creatures.  The  robin  was  there,  and  the 
red-bird ;  the  wren,  the  sparrow,  the  little 
yellow-bird,  the  dove,  and  the  beautiful 
humming-bird.  A  great  eagle  came  rush 
ing  through  the  air ;  and  a  hawk  stooped 
down  among  the  birds,  but  he  was  so 
pleased  with  the  music  that  he  did  not  seek 
to  do  any  harm,  nor  were  the  little  birds 
afraid  of  him." 

"What  a  strange  dream!"  said  Fanny. 
"  How  long  did  they  stay  ?" 

"  Oh !  a  great  while.  I  played  for  them 
all  for  a  long  time,  and  never  felt  so  happy 
in  my  life." 

"  Did  they  come  near?"  asked  Fanny. 

"Yes.  The  deer  laid  his  head  upon 
my  knee,  and  a  sweet  little  humming-bird 


IV.— K 


118  HARRY'S   DREAM. 

with  blue  and  golden  wings  and  breast  like 
a  rainbow,  came  close  up  to  me,  and  almost 
lit  upon  my  shoulder.  A  bluebird  settled 
down  upon  the  deer's  back,  and  robin  red 
breast  and  the  sparrow  came  so  close  that 
I  could  have  caught  them  in  my  hand." 

"  Robin  red-breast  and  the  sparrow !" 
cried  Fanny,  clapping  her  hands.  "  Why, 
it  was  the  sparrow,  who,  a  long  time  ago, 
shot  cock  robin  with  his  bow  and  arrow." 

"  Yes ;  but  that  was  all  forgotten,  and 
they  were  the  best  of  friends." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  been  there !" 

"  But  it  was  only  a  dream,  you  know, 
Fanny,"  said  Henry. 

"  True  enough.  I  was  forgetting  that 
And  they  stayed  a  long  while  ?" 

"  Yes.  But  at  last  I  heard  a  great  roar 
in  the  wood.  Then  the  birds  started  up, 
fluttering  their  wings,  and  were  soon  glanc 
ing  away  over  the  tree-tops  and  through 
the  forest.  The  deer  sprang  frightened 
to  his  feet,  and,  after  looking  timidly,  first 
on  this  side  and  then  on  that,  bounded  off 


HARRY'S   DREAM.  11(J 


like  an  arrow.  I  now  saw  a  great  red  lion 
dashing  along  and  roaring,  while  his  long 
tail  swept  angrily  around.  This  so  fright 
ened  me,  that  I  awoke." 

"  What  a  strange  dream !"  said  Fanny. 

"  What  could  it  mean,  mother  ?"  asked 
Henry,  on  closing  the  relation.  "  I  never 
had  such  a  strange  dream  before." 

"  Dreams,  my  son,"  said  Henry's  mother, 
"  are  of  two  kinds ;  fantastic,  or  such  as 
have  in  them  no  signification  whatever; 
and  correspondential,  or  such  as  present,  in 
apparent  visible  form,  such  objects  as  cor 
respond  in  nature  to  qualities  and  attri 
butes  of  the  mind.  Dreams  of  this  kind 
often  come  as  means  of  instruction,  warn 
ing,  or  admonition,  and  are  sent  or  per 
mitted  to  come  by  the  Great  Father  of 
us  all,  who  is  ever  overruling  all  occur 
rences,  even  the  most  minute,  for  our  spiri 
tual  good." 

"  But  what  signification  could  there  be 
in  my  curious  dream  ?"  asked  Harry. 

"  That,  my  son,  is  more  than  I  am  able 


120 


to  point  out;  still,  my  mind  sees  dimly  a 
remote  significance.  Do  you  remember  by 
what  name  the  Lord,  when  on  earth,  called 
Herod." 

"  That  fox?" 

"  Yes.    But  what  did  he  mean  by  this  ?" 

u  He  meant  that  Hp^od  was  cunning, 
like  a  fox." 

"  Yes ;  or,  in  other  words,  that  the  qua 
lity  of  Herod's  mind,  which  the  fox  visibly 
embodies  in  nature,  ruled  his  actions.  He 
rod  had  other  qualities  beside  that  of  cun 
ning,  as  all  other  men  have ;  but  he  was  a 
fox,  because  he  suffered  this  particular  qua 
lity  to  govern  him.  You  have  heard  a 
child  called  a  lamb?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Because  a  lamb  is  the  visible  represent 
ation  of  innocence  in  the  world  of  nature. 
A  cruel  man  is  called  a  tiger,  for  a  like 
reason ;  the  tiger  being  a  natural  form  of 
cruelty.  And  so  it  is  of  every  beast  and 
bird  and  flower;  in  fact,  of  every  visible 
object  below  man.  They  are  all  images  of 


HARRY'S  DREAM.  121 

things  in  man.  In  your  dream,  then,  you 
saw  around  you  only  what  was  in  yourself, 
— images  of  your  affections." 

Harry  looked  wonderingly  into  his  mo 
ther's  face.  He  but  half  comprehended  her 
meaning. 

"Why  did  they  all  come  around  me 
when  I  played,"  he  inquired. 

"  It  is  easy  to  ask  questions,  my  boy," 
said  the  mother,  smiling,  "  but  it  is  not  al 
ways  so  easy  to  answer  them.  Let  us,  how 
ever,  remember,  that  in  music  one  essential 
thing  is  harmony,  and  that  what  is  harmo 
nious  is  in  order.  Think,  at  the  same  time, 
of  all  these  animals  that  were  so  docile  at 
the  sound  of  your  music,  as  affections  of 
your  mind,  all  subdued  and  in  perfect  sub 
jection  to  the  power  of  true  harmony,  or 
that  which  comes  from  a  life  passed  in  the 
order  for  which  God  designed  it.  In  other 
words,  if  you  live  an  orderly  and  good  life, 
according  to  the  commandments  of  God,  all 
the  affections  of  your  mind  will  be  in  sub 
jection.  Good  affections  will  be  in  their 

IV.— 8  K  2 


122  HARRY'S   DREAM. 


true  activity,  while  evil  affections  will 
yield  a  powerless  obedience,  subdued  under 
the  influence  of  what  is  harmonious  and 
heavenly." 

The  boy  did  not  fully  comprehend  this ; 
but  it  made  him  thoughtful. 

"  Have  I  tigers  and  wolves  in  me  ?"  he 
asked  some  hours  afterward. 

"  You  have  evil  affections,  to  which  these 
correspond,  my  son,"  replied  his  mother. 
"  But  they  are  young  and  feeble  yet,  and 
you  must  not  give  them  food  to  nourish 
and  strengthen  them,  which  you  do  when 
you  indulge  a  feeling  of  cruelty,  or  seek, 
from  anger,  to  harm  another.  That  there 
are  human  wolves  and  tigers  in  the  world, 
more  cruel  even  than  the  wild  beasts  of 
the  forest,  the  dreadful  crimes  that  are 
almost  daily  committed  too  -fully  prove. 
Be  watchful,  then,  my  son,  that  you  do  not 
give  these  evil  beasts  of  the  heart  power 
over  the  innocent  lambs  and  doves  that 
likewise  have  a  place  in  your  bosom." 


WILLIAM    AND   THE   BEGGAR. 


Page  126 


TRUE  BENEVOLENCE. 


A  LITTLE  boy,  named  "William,  once 
•*^"  had  a  sixpence  given  to  him.  He 
was  a  kind-hearted  boy.  "What  shall  I 
do  with  my  sixpence?"  said  he.  "How 
shall  I  spend  it?  Oh!  I  will  buy  myself 
a  top  and  cord !"  And  away  he  started  for 
the  store  where  toys  were  kept  for  sale. 

As  he  went  along,  he  saw  a  man  with 
soiled  and  ragged  clothes,  sitting  on  the 
door-step  of  a  house.  The  man  seemed  so 
wretched,  that  the  lad  paused  to  look  at 
him.  The  man  said  nothing,  and  the  boy 
soon  went  on  again ;  but  he  walked  slower, 
and  every  now  and  then  stopped  and  look 
ed  back  at  the  miserable  creature.  When 


125 


126  TRUE    BENEVOLENCE. 

he  got  to  the  shop-door,  he  paused,  and  in 
stead  of  going  in,  turned  and  looked  again 
at  the  poor  man,  who  was  still  in  sight. 

"  He  must  be  hungry,"  said  the  lad  to 
himself  thoughtfully.  "I  can  do  without  a 
top  very  well." 

Back  he  ran,  and  without  reflecting  fur 
ther,  handed  the  man  his  sixpence,  saying 
as  he  did  so — 

"  Here,  poor  man,  is  a  sixpence.  You 
must  be  hungry.  Go  and  get  something  to 
eat." 

The  man  took  the  money,  and  thanked 
the  boy  for  his  generous  conduct. 

William  felt  happy.  He  had  denied 
himself  an  anticipated  pleasure  in  order  to 
relieve  the  necessities  of  another,  and  the 
thought  gave  him  more  delight  than  he 
could  possibly  have  received  from  the  pos 
session  of  the  top  he  had  intended  buying. 

On  coming  back  home,  William  told  his 
mother  of  what  he  had  done,  and  ended  by 
saying — 

"  Was  it  not  right,  mother?" 


TRUE   BENEVOLENCE.  127 


<c  You  were  right,  certainly,  my  son,  to 
deny  yourself  a  pleasure,  in  order  to  relieve 
the  distress  of  another,  and  I  am  glad  to 
find  in  you  so  unselfish  a  spirit.  Still,  it  is 
possible  that  you  have  not  done  so  well  as 
you  would  if  you  had  bought  a  top,  and 
amused  your  little  sick  brother  by  spinning 
it  for  him." 

"  But,  mother,"  said  William,  "the  man 
looked  so  poor;  and  I  am  sure  he  was 
hungry." 

"  Yet,  it  is  very  possible  that  he  alone 
was  to  blame  for  this." 

"  How  could  he  help  it,  mother  ?" 

"If  it  is  the  man  I  saw  going  past  the 
window  half  an  hour  ago,  I  am  very  sure 
he  could  help  it.  How  was  he  dressed  ?" 

"He  had  on  a  ragged  brown  coat;  and 
his  hat  was  torn,  and  one  side  bent  in." 

"  The  same  man.  He  is  idle  and  drunken. 
All  the  money  he  gets  he  spends  in  liquor, 
and  then  goes  home  intoxicated  to  ill-treat 
his  wife  and  half-starved,  half-clothed  chil 
dren.     With  the  sixpence  you  gave  him, 


128  TRUE   BENEVOLENCE. 

lie  will  buy  liquor.  Drinking  this  will  de 
prive  him  of  his  reason,  and  then  infernal 
spirits  will  flow  into  his  mind,  and  prompt 
him  to  abuse  the  helpless,  dependent  ones 
in  his  wretched  home.  It  does  such  a  man 
no  good,  my  son,  to  bestow  alms  upon  him ; 
but,  instead,  does  him  harm,  and  gives 
him  power  to  harm  others." 

"  0  mother !  I  am  so  sorry,"  replied 
William,  the  tears  gathering  in  his  eyes. 
"  I  never  thought  of  that.  Will  you  for 
give  me  for  having  done  so  wrong  ?" 

"  I  do  not  blame  you,  my  dear  boy,"  said 
his  mother.  "As  far  as  you  are  concerned, 
the  act  was  good,  for  it  sprang  from  a  wish 
to  do  good  to  a  suffering  fellow-creature. 
You  thought  the  object  of  your  benevo 
lence  one  who  stood  in  need  of  food,  with 
out  possessing  the  ability  to  obtain  it ;  and 
you  denied  yourself  in  order  to  relieve  his 
wants.  That  was  right,  and  I  hope  you  will 
ever  be  as  ready  to  act  in  a  similar  spirit." 

"  But  it  wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  give 
money  to  a  drunken  man  again?" 


TRUE    BENEVOLENCE.  129 

u  Oh  no !  Not  if  you  knew  that  he  was 
such.  In  dispensing  to  the  needy  of  the 
good  gifts  that  Providence  has  freely  be 
stowed  upon  us,  it  is  our  duty  to  see,  as  far 
as  lies  in  our  power,  that  the  idle  and  vi 
cious  are  not  encouraged  in  their  evil  ways, 
by  having  wants  supplied  by  our  hands 
that  it  is  their  duty  to  supply  with  their 
own.  I  will  tell  you  how  you  might  have 
spent  your  sixpence,  and  done  good  with  it." 

"How,  mother?" 

"  You  know  the  poor  woman  living 
around  in  the  court,  who  used  to  come  and 
wash  for  us?" 

"Mrs.  Baker?" 

"  Yes.     She  is  sick.     You  know  that." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  She  has  a  fever.  If  you  had  bought 
her  a  nice  orange,  and  taken  it  to  her,  it 
would  have  tasted  very  pleasant  to  her, 
and  would  have  cooled  her  hot  lips.  Don't 
you  remember  how  good  the  orange  tasted 
whicn  father  brought  you  home,  when  you 
had  that  raging  fever?" 


130  TRUE    BENEVOLENCE. 


"  0  mother !  I  wish  I  had  thought  of 
that,"  said  William,  looking  grieved.  "  If  I 
only  had  another  sixpence !" 

"  You  shall  have  one,  my  generous- 
minded  boy!"  replied  his  mother,  taking  a 
sixpence  from  her  purse,  and  handing  it  to 
William. 

The  lad  fairly  flew  away.  In  about 
twenty  minutes  he  came  back.  But  his 
face  was  not  happy. 

"  Did  you  get  the  orange,  my  son?"  asked 
his  mother. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  replied.  "  And  Mrs. 
Baker  was  so  glad  to  get  it.  She  said  it 
tasted  better  than  any  thing  she  had 
placed  to  her  lips  for  a  long  time.  But, 
0  mother !  what  do  you  think  ?  The  man 
to  whom  I  gave  the  sixpence  came  stag 
gering  out  of  the  drinking-house,  at  the 
corner,  and  fell  so  drunk  upon  the  pave 
ment,  that  he  could  not  get  up !  It  was 
my  sixpence  that  did  this !" 

And  the  little  boy  put  his  hands  over 
iiis  face,  and  burst  into  tears. 


TRUE   BENEVOLENCE.  131 


k{  Do  not  be  grieved,  my  son,"  said 
William's  mother,  speaking  in  a  kind  and 
soothing  voice.  "You  did  not  do  wrong, 
for  you  acted  from  a  desire  to  benefit  the 
unhappy  man.  In  the  Lord's  providence, 
you  were  permitted  to  give  this  man  your 
sixpence ;  and  let  us  hope  that  the  Lord  will 
make  the  act,  in  some  way,  promote  his 
good,  even  though,  to  all  human  appear 
ance,  it  seems  to  have  done  him  harm." 

Thus  the  mother  sought  to  satisfy  her 
grieving  boy.  We  should  all  profit  by  the 
lesson  he  was  taught.  God  has  given  us 
minds  and  the  ability  to  reflect.  Let  us 
use  our  reason,  and  wisely  discriminate 
between  true  benevolence  and  mere  im 
pulse. 


THE    LAMB. 


C^MMA  LEE  was  on  her  way  to  school, 
****  one  day,  when  she  found  a  new-born 
lamb  lying  in  the  soft  green  grass.  She 
looked  all  around,  but  its  dam  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen ;  so  she  lifted  it  tenderly  in  her 
arms,  and  carried  it  back  to  her  home.  As 
she  walked  along,  the  lamb  laid  its  head 
against  her  bosom,  and  looked  up  at  her 
with  its  mild  eyes,  and  meek,  innocent  face. 
Already  she  loved  it ;  when  she  got  home 
she  said — 

"0  mother!  Dear  mother!  Look  here! 
I  have  found  the  sweetest  little  lamb.  It 
was  all  alone  in  the  field.  And  I  have 
brought  it  home.  Sha'n't  it  be  mine,  mo- 


THE    LAMB.  13$ 


ther  ?  I  will  give  it  some  of  my  bread  and 
milk,  and  oh  !  I  will  love  it  so  much." 

But  Emma's  mother  said  that  the  lamby 
no  doubt,  belonged  to  farmer  Wilkins, 
and  that  it  wouldn't  be  right  for  her  to 
keep  it. 

Then  Emma  looked  sad. 

"  It  would  be  wrong,  my  love,"  said  Mrs. 
Lee,  seeing  how  sorrowful  Emma  looked, 
"  for  you  to  keep  what  belongs  to  farmer 
Wilkins.  Suppose  you  had  a  lamb,  and  it 
were  to  get  lost — would  you  think  it  right 
for  the  person  who  found  it  to  keep  it  as 
his  own  ?" 

Emma  Lee,  though  a  very  little  girl,  was 
quick  to  understand  a  good  reason,  when 
it  was  given.  She  saw,  in  a  moment,  that 
she  had  no  right  to  keep  the  lamb.  So  she 
said,  though  in  not  a  very  animated  way, 
for  she  could  not  help  being  grieved  at  the 
thought  of  parting  with  the  innocent  crea 
ture — 

"  Hadn't  I  better  carry  it  over  to  farmer 
Wilkins?" 


134  THE     LAMB. 

"Yes,  dear.  It  may  be  his;  but,  if  not, 
lie  can  tell  you  to  whom  it  belongs." 

So  Emma  took  the  lamb  in  her  arma 
again,  ond  earned  it  over  to  farmer  Wil- 
kins. 

"  I  found  this  dear  little  lamb  all  alone 
in  the  fields,  as  I  went  to  school,"  said 
Emma,  when  she  saw  the  farmer.  "  Mother 
says  it  must  be  yours;  and  so  I  have 
brought  it  over." 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  lamb,"  said  farmer  Wil- 
kins,  as  he  took  the  little  animal  from  her 
arms;  "and  you  are  a  good  girl  for  bring 
ing  it  home  to  me.  If  the  dogs  had  found 
it,  they  would  have  torn  it  all  to  pieces. 
Here,  Kitty,"  and  he  spoke  to  a  maid  who 
was  standing  near,  "  go  into  the  garden  and 
pick  a  basket  of  strawberries  for  Emma 
Lee.  She  found  this  new-born  lamb  in  the 
field  this  morning,  and  has  come  all  the 
way  here  to  bring  it  home." 

As  the  farmer  said  this,  he  put  the  lamb 
upon  the  ground,  but,  as  Emma  thought, 
not  very  gently.  This  awakened  all  her 


THE    LAMB.  135 

sympathies  for  the  little  creature,  and 
stooping  down,  she  put  her  arm  around  its 
neck  and  kissed  it. 

"  Dear,  sweet  lamb !"  she  murmured. 
Then  looking  into  the  farmer's  face,  she 
said,  in  an  earnest  voice — 

"  You  won't  hurt  the  poor  lamb  ?" 

"0  no,  child,  I  won't  hurt  it,"  replied 
the  farmer,  whose  feelings  were  slightly 
moved  by  this  exhibition  of  tenderness. 
"But  come  into  the  garden,  with  Kitty, 
and  get  some  strawberries." 

"  Thank  you  !"  replied  Emma,  looking 
up;  "but  I  don't  care  about  any  straw 
berries  to-day."  The  farmer  saw  that  there 
were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  little  girl;  and 
he  began  to  understand  her  real  feelings 
about  the  lamb. 

"  Do  you  love  the  lamb  ?"  he  asked. 

Emma  did  not  answer  in  words,  but 
the  way  in  which  she  drew  the  creature's 
head  tightly  against  her  bosom,  told  the 
farmer  how  much  of  tenderness  was  in  her 
heart. 

L2 


136  THE     LAMB. 

"  If  that  lamb  were  yours,"  said  farmer 
Wilkins,  "what  would  you  do  with  it?" 

Emma's  whole  face  brightened  instantly, 
and  her  tongue  was  unloosed. 

"  0 !"  replied  she,  "  I  would  feed  it  on 
new  milk  from  our  cow,  every  day ;  and  I 
would  make  it  a  nice  soft  bed  to  sleep  on, 
where  no  cold  nor  rain  would  touch  it. 
And  I  would  love  it  so  much !" 

"  Take  it,  then,  my  good  little  girl,"  said 
the  farmer.  "  I  have  a  great  many  lambs 
in  my  flocks,  and  shall  not  miss  this  one. 
Take  it;  it  is  yours." 

How  overjoyed  was  Emma  at  these  un 
expected  words! 

"  0 !  I  am  so  glad !"  fell  warmly  from 
her  lips.  Then  lifting  the  lamb  once  more 
in  her  arms,  she  ran  home  with  it  as  fast 
as  she  could  go.  Under  her  kind  care,  the 
lamb  was  so  tenderly  nursed  that  it  scarce 
ly  missed  the  mother  from  which  it  had 
been  taken;  and  it  soon  learned  to  know 
Emma's  voice,  and  would  follow  her  about, 
and  sport  with  her  as  playfully  as  a  kitten. 


1  H  E     LAMB.  137 


Every  day  when  she  went  to  school,  her 
mother  had  to  shut  the  lamb  up  in  the 
house,. to  keep  it  from  following  her;  but 
when  she  returned,  it  would  see  her  a  good 
way  off,  and  run  skipping  along  to  meet 
her.  Emma  would  put  her  arms  around 
its  neck,  as  soon  as  it  came  up,  kiss  it,  and 
say — 

"  Dear  little  lamb !  How  I  love  you !" 
And  though  the  lamb  could  not  tell,  in 
words,  how  much  it  loved  its  dear  young 
friend,  yet  Emma  could  read  its  love  in  its 
eyes,  and  understand  all  it  would  have  said 
had  it  been  gifted  with  speech. 


LITTLE  GEORGE  AND  HIS 
GRANDMOTHER. 


"Q  GRANDMA!"  said  little  George, 
opening  the  curtain  and  looking  out 
of  the  window — "  the  ground  is  all  covered 
with  snow !" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  has  snowed  during  the 
night,  and  covered  the  earth  to  the  depth 
of  several  inches." 

"  0,  look  at  the  pretty  snow-birds !  See 
how  close  they  come  to  the  door.  But  are 
they  not  very  cold,  grandma,  their  feet  are 
so  red?" 

"  No  George.  The  little  snow-birds  are 
not  afraid  of  the  cold.  They  are  all  co 
vered  with  soft  and  warm  feathers." 

188 


LITTLE  GEORGE  AND  HIS  GRANDMOTHER.     139 


"  But  a'n't  their  feet  cold  ?  When  my 
teet  were  once  almost  frozen,  they  were  red, 
just  like  the  snow-bird's  feet." 

"  Their  feet  are  always  red,  as  well  in 
summer  as  in  winter." 

"  Where  do  the  snow-birds  go  in  the 
summer-time,  grandma  ?  I  never  see  them 
after  the  winter  is  gone." 

"  They  love  the  snow  and  the  cold,  and 
so  they  go  away  off  to  the  north  in  the 
summer-time,  where  they  lay  their  eggs 
and  hatch  out  their  young  ones." 

"  Then,  if  they  love  the  cold  so  well, 
why  don't  they  stay  there  ?  It's  always 
cold  at  the  north,  you  have  told  me." 

"  They  come  here  for  food.  In  our  mild 
climate  grow  very  many  plants,  the  seeds 
of  which  are  good  food  for  them." 

"  But  it  snows  here  too,  grandma,  and 
covers  up  all  the  ground." 

"  But  not  often  so  deep  as  to  cover  up  in 
the  woods  and  corners  of  the  fields  the  tops 
of  weeds  and  bushes,  from  which  they  may 
still  pick  the  seeds.  See  there !  Don't  you 


IV.— 9 


140  LITTLE    GEORGE   AND 

jee  that  little  bird  picking  out  the  seeds  from 
a  stock  which  still  lifts  itself  above  the 
enow?" 

"  0  yes  !  Dear  little  bird !  See !  Now 
it  has  come  close  up  to  the  door,  and  is 
picking  up  the  crumbs  from  the  step." 

"  After  a  deep  snow,  they  always  come 
about  the  houses  and  barns,  and  haystacks, 
to  pick  up  crumbs  and  seeds." 

"  Where  are  they  when  it  don't  snow, 
or  when  all  the  snow  is  melted  ?" 

"  In  the  woods  and  fields,  getting  their 
food  from  weeds  and  shrubs." 

"  They  all  turn  to  sparrows  in  the  sum 
mer-time,  don't  they?" 

"  No,  dear.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  they 
all  left  us  and  went  away  to  the  north, 
where  the  climate  is  colder  ?" 

"  0  yes.  But  then  I  heard  Mr.  Murray 
say,  that  the  little  chirping  sparrows  that 
live  about  the  houses  in  summer-time  were 
snow-birds  with  new  feathers  on." 

"  Other  people  besides  Mr.  Murray  have 
thought  so.  But  a  sparrow  is  a  sparrow, 


HIS    GRANDMOTHER.  141 

and  a  snow-bird  a  snow-bird.  But  come, 
it  is  breakfast-time,  and  you  must  eat  and 
get  ready  for  school." 

"  Must  I  go  to  school  to-day,  grandma, 
all  through  the  deep  snow?"  little  George 
asked,  making  a  wry  face. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  the  snow,  are 
you,  George  ?" 

"  No,  I  am  not  afraid  of  it — but  then  it 
is  so  deep,  and  looks  so  cold." 

"  It's  only  a  few  inches  deep/'  grandma 
said,  "  and  I  will  wrap  you  up  so  warm  that 
the  cold  can't  touch  you.  So  come  down 
and  get  a  nice  breakfast,  and  then  my  little 
boy  will  go  off  as  happy  as  he  can  be." 

Like  a  good  many  other  little  boys, 
George  liked  to  get  an  excuse  for  staying 
away  from  school,  and  therefore  it  was, 
that  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  snow  on  the 
ground,  he  thought  that  now  he  could  stay 
at  home  and  have  a  good  frolic.  But  when 
his  grandmother  seemed  so  in  earnest  about 
his  going,  he  felt  a  little  unkind;  and 
though  he  said  nothing  more,  he  coked 


142  LITTLE    GEORGE   AND 


rather  sober  as  he  came  down-stairs  and 
seated  himself  at  the  breakfast-table. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  hear  a  little  story, 
George  ?"  his  grandma  said,  after  the  break 
fast  was  over,  and  she  was  about  getting 
him  ready  to  go  to  school. 

"  0  yes,  grandma,  tell  me  a  story,"  and 
his  eyes  brightened  up,  and  he  looked  all 
interest. 

"  Well,  a  great  many  years  ago,"  began 
George's  grandma,  "  there  lived  a  poor  wo 
man  in  a  cottage,  who  had  one  little  boy. 
She  hadn't  money  to  buy  him  such  nice, 
warm  clothes  as  you  have,  but  the  best  that 
she  could  get  for  him  were  always  kept 
whole  and  clean.  In  the  summer-time  he 
worked  in  her  garden  sometimes,  and  some 
times  in  the  neighbours'  gardens,  who  paid 
him  money.  This  money  he  always  brought 
to  his  mother,  for  he  loved  her  very  much. 

"  When  the  winter-time  came,  and  the 
ground  was  all  covered  up  with  snow,  he 
could  not  get  any  work  to  do,  and  then  he 
had  time  to  go  to  school.  His  mother  was 


HIS   GRANDMOTHER.  143 

so  anxious  that  her  boy  should  learn,  that 
she  saved  a  little  money,  poor  as  she  was, 
during  summer,  to  pay  for  his  schooling  in 
the  winter. 

"  Now  the  school-house  was  more  than  a 
mile  away,  and  the  snow  lay  for  months 
upon  the  ground  far  deeper  than  it  is  now, 
for  the  winters  were  a  great  deal  colder 
then,  and  it  snowed  a  great  deal  more.  But 
this  little  boy  never  asked  to  stay  home, 
although  he  was  no  bigger  than  you,  and 
hadn't  such  a  nice,  warm  great-coat  as  you 
have.  In  the  morning  he  would  be  up 
bright  and  early,  and  bring  in  wood  for  his 
mother  from  the  wood-pile,  and  fetch  her 
three  or  four  pails  of  water  from  the  spring, 
enough  to  last  all  day,  and  then  he  would 
go  off  to  school  as  happy  as  a  bird. 

"  Well,  in  this  way  he  got  a  good  educa 
tion,  and  when  he  grew  up  to  be  a  man, 
his  learning  enabled  him  to  earn  money 
enough  to  keep  his  poor  mother  from  work 
ing  so  hard  any  longer." 

"  Wasn't  he  a  good  little  boy,  grandma  l" 

IV.-M 


144  LITTLE   GEORGE   AND 

George  said,  looking  up  with  a  face  full  of 
delighted  interest. 

"Yes,  George,  he  was  a  very  good  boy; 
and,  when  he  grew  up  to  be  a  man,  he  was 
a  good  man." 

"  Where  is  he  now,  grandma?" 

"He  is  in  heaven,  my  dear.  After  a 
while  he  took  sick  and  died,  and  they  buried 
his  dead  body  in  the  ground,  but  his  living 
spirit — that  part  of  him  that  thought  about 
and  loved  his  mother — could  not  die.  It 
went  to  heaven.  But  his  mother  was  not 
all  alone.  He  left  her  another  little  boy, 
his  own  boy,  whose  mother  had  gone  to 
heaven  a  little  while  before  him." 

"And  was  that  little  boy  good  to  his 
grandma  ?" 

"  0  yes." 

"And  did  he  love  her?" 

"  Yes,  he  loved  her  very  much,  and  she 
loved  him,  and  made  him  warm  clothes. 
But  he  didn't  always  like  to  go  to  school, 
Invuuse  he  didn't  know  how  much  good  it 
luul  done  his  father,  when  he  was  a  little 


HIS    GRANDMOTHER.  145 

boy,  nor  how  far  his  father  had  to  go,  even 
when  the  snow  was  deeper  and  the  air 
colder  than  it  is  now." 

George  stood  thoughtful  by  his  grand 
ma's  side  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then 
looking  up  into  her  face,  asked  earnestly — 

"  Am  I  that  little  boy,  grandma?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  you  are  that  little  boy," 
she  said,  stooping  down  and  kissing  him 
tenderly. 

"And  was  it  my  father  who  got  you 
wood  and  water,  and  worked  for  you  in  the 
summer-time,  and  then  went  so  far  to 
school  in  the  cold  and  snow  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear." 

"  I'll  never  ask  to  stay  home  from  school 
again,  if  it  snows  up  to  the  top  of  the  door," 
he  replied,  lifting  his  head  with  a  deter 
mined  air. 

His  grandma  was  much  pleased  to  see 
the  effect  of  what  she  had  told  him  upon 
his  mind.  She  got  his  thick  over-coat  and 
buttoned  it  up  closely  about  the  neck. 
Then  she  took  his  mittens  and  warmed 


146  LITTLE   GEORGE. 

them  all  so  nicely  before  she  drew  them  on 
his  little  hands.  After  he  was  all  ready, 
with  his  book,  and  his  slate  under  his  arms, 
she  gave  him  a  good  kiss,  and  away  he 
went  as  happy  as  a  cricket. 

He  never  complained  of  the  cold  after 
that.  Whenever  he  saw  the  snow,  he 
thought  of  his  father  when  he  was  a  little 
boy,  and  of  how  he  had  waded  through  it 
for  more  than  a  mile  every  day,  that  he 
might  get  to  school  and  learn,  and  of  how 
much  good  that  learning  had  done  him. 


FADING  FLOWEBS. 


/"VNE  day,  when  a  child,  said  a  cheerful- 
^-^  minded  friend,  who  had  passed  over 
more  than  two-thirds  of  the  time  usually 
allotted  to  men  on  earth,  I  went  into  the 
field  and  gathered  a  bunch  of  beautiful 
wild-flowers  which  I  placed  in  a  vase  on 
the  mantel-piece.  To  my  eyes  they  were 
beautiful;  and  many  times,  during  the  few 
hours  that  passed  till  evening,  did  I  come 
in  from  my  play  to  look  at  them.  /  had 
gathered  and  arranged  them — they  were 
mine — and,  therefore,  the  more  highly 
prized. 

Early  the   next   morning  I  arose,  and, 
dressing  myself,  went  to  look  at  my  floral 

M2  U7 


148  FADING    FLOWERS. 


treasures.  Alas !  they  had  withered  away, 
and  hung  with  drooping  heads  over  the 
side  of  the  glass  in  which  I  had  placed 
them.  A  few  curled  leaves,  almost  colour 
less,  lay  upon  the  floor,  and  upon  some  of 
them  a  careless  foot  had  trodden. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  bewildered ;  then 
shrank  away  into  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  commenced  weeping  and  sobbing  bit 
terly.  -  My  all  of  earthly  happiness  seemed 
wrecked. 

My  kind  mother  (I  shall  never  forget 
her,  nor  her  early  lessons  of  love)  came  in 
while  my  young  heart  was  trembling  in  its 
sorrow,  and  taking  my  hand,  as  she  sat 
down  by  me,  inquired,  in  an  anxious  tone, 
the  cause  of  my  grief. 

"  My  flowers,"  said  I,  sobbing  more  bit- 
terly ;  it  was  all  that  my  tongue  could  ar 
ticulate. 

Her  mother's  heart  comprehended,  the 
moment  her  eye  caught  my  faded  blossoms, 
the  whole  weight  of  my  childish  affliction. 
She  did  not  speak  for  a  few  minutes,  but 


FADING   FLOWERS.  149 


raised  me  up  and  laid  my  head  upon  her 
bosom.  Her  fond  affection  calmed  my  in 
fant  transports  of  sorrow,  and  I  soon  looked 
up  composedly  into  her  face;  she  smiled 
on  me  with  a  smile  a  mother's  countenance 
can  only  wear ;  but  I  well  remember  now 
that  a  tear  was  on  her  cheek. 

I  thought  it  strange  at  the  time  that  my 
mother  should  weep ;  but  I  can  now  well 
imagine  her  feelings,  as  the  little  accident 
I  have  mentioned  threw  her  thoughts  upon 
the  future,  and  brought  before  her  mind,  in 
sad  array,  the  many  disappointments  that 
would  crowd  my  path,  of  which  this  one 
was  but  a  gentle  prelude.  She  looked  pla 
cidly  on  my  face  for  a  moment,  which  was 
upturned  to  hers,  and  then  assuming  a  se 
rious  tone,  implanted  in  my  young  mind 
one  of  her  first  lessons  of  patience  and  en 
durance — a  lesson  which  has  never  been 
forgotten. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  she,  "  I  am  sorry 
that  your  flowers  have  faded;  but  you 
know  there  are  many  more  in  the  fields. 


150  FADING    FLOWERS. 

and  much  prettier  ones  in  the  garden.  You 
can  gather  a  new  bouquet." 

"  But  I  gathered  them,  mother,"  said  I, 
"  and  I  liked  them  flowers  better  than  any 
others,  because  they  were  mine."  And  I 
wept  again  to  think  that  those  very  ones 
that  /  loved  should  have  faded. 

"  Your  flowers  will  often  wither,  my 
child,"  answered  my  mother ;  "  and  though 
you  may  love  your  own  more  than  any 
others,  yet  when  their  brightness  and 
beauty  are  gone,  you  must  remember 
that  grieving  cannot  restore  them.  Every 
thing  which  brings  to  you  pleasure,  is  one 
of  the  flowers  of  life.  Do  you  not  love 
me  more  than  all  those  pretty  coloured 
leaves?" 

I  could  not  say  yes — but  the  smiling 
tears  that  were  in  my  eyes  told  her  my 
feelings;  and  my  little  arms,  twined  fondly 
around  her  neck,  made  the  strongest  affir 
mative  her  heart  wanted. 

"  I  am  one  of  the  flowers  of  life,"  conti 
nued  she,  "  and  so  is  your  father,  and  so  is 


FADING   FLOWERS.  151 


sister  Mary.  But  did  you  never  think  that 
one  day  these  flowers  would  wither  ?" 

I  scarcely  comprehended  her  meaning 
then,  but  I  did  not  forget  the  words  she 
uttered ;  and  years  after,  when  manhood 
was  upon  my  brow,  and  I  stood  looking 
down  into  her  grave,  the  whole  truth  of  her 
question  and  allusion  came  upon  my  mind, 
and  I  wept  anew  in  bitterness  of  spirit. 

"  Remember,  my  dear,"  said  she  as  I 
continued  looking  seriously  into  her  face, 
but  half  conscious  of  the  force  of  what  she 
was  saying,  "  that  all  along  your  ways 
through  life  will  spring  up  pleasant  flowers, 
and  your  hand  will  be  constantly  reaching 
out  and  plucking  them — but,  my  child, 
they  will  all  wither.  Nothing  on  earth  is 
permanent.  All  things  are  changing  and 
passing  away.  You  will  indulge  many 
brilliant  anticipations,  and,  as  you  spring 
up  to  manhood,  will  have  many  hopes  of 
happiness  in  this  world;  but  disappoint 
ment  will  follow  your  steps  wherever  you 
tread,  and  the  thorns  of  sorrow  tear  your 


152  FADING   FLOWERS. 

hands  often  as  you  nave  reached  them  out 
to  pluck  the  blossoms  of  joy.  Yet,  amid 
all  this,  there  is  a  virtue  which  takes  large 
ly  away  from  the  darkness  of  the  picture ; 
the  virtue  of  patience.  Do  you  not  re 
member  reading  in  the  little  book  I  gave 
you  a  day  or  two  since,  that 

1  To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate*  ? 

That  means,  if  we  are  patient  under  disap 
pointment  and  grief,  it  will  rob  them  of 
much  of  their  painrulness.  We  make  .our 
sorrows  deeper  than  they  really  are,  by 
thinking  and  grieving  over  them.  Learn 
to  have  patience  under  all  circumstances, 
and  your  happiness  will  be  more  certain." 

"  And  now,  my  child,"  continued  she, 
u gather  up  those  leaves  from  the  floor; 
throw  away  the  withered  flowers  and  get 
fresh  ones." 

I  ran  to  the  field  as  soon  as  I  had  done 
my  breakfast,  and  collected  another  bunch 
as  pretty  as  those  I  had  the  day  before, 
and  was  happy  in  looking  at  them  in  their 


FADING    FLOWERS.  153 


nice  arrangement  upon  the  shelf  where  I 
placed  them. 

In  a  day  or  two  they  faded  also,  but  I 
remembered  the  words  of  my  mother,  and 
tried  to  learn  patience.  It  was  a  hard 
lesson  at  first;  but  whenever  any  thing 
went  wrong,  I  still  tried  the  remedy  called 
patience,  and  soon  found  that  it  was  a 
charm  which  robbed  disappointment  of 
most  of  its  pain. 

Ever  since,  said  this  friend,  I  have  en 
deavoured  to  use  patience  under  all  circum 
stances,  and  find  that  it  brings  the  mind 
nearer  than  any  thing  else  to  that  content 
ment  which  Campbell  calls  "  the  all  in  all 
of  life." 


THE  END. 


W119134 

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M119134 


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